


Après Moi, le Deluge

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Brick (2005), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 92,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing
> 
> This is kind of starting as a slow thing, so don't expect appearances by other Inception characters for a while. This is also post-Brick but pre-Inception, and you probably need to see Brick to understand it.

**Après Moi, le Deluge**

**ONE**

Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he'd been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.

Emily's body had been put into the dirt less than a week ago. She was just one of several bodies of course, but in the end hers was the one making him feel so weighed down. After he'd told his tale to Laura on the playing field, he'd expected that to be it, that Laura would be taken into custody and the Pin's ring disbanded until someone else rose to power and ultimately took up the mantle. By that point he was sure it was all duck soup, but then she had quite eloquently handed him a world shattering piece of information and lammed off without a trace.

It figured that Laura would know how to scram when the tides shifted out of her favor. San Clemente could never hold her anyway. She was gone from the place long before she had physically left. Maybe she'd gone down to live with her grandmother, or maybe that grandmother never existed and she'd gone somewhere else. It didn't particularly matter because she'd either be found or she wouldn't. He had a feeling it would be the latter of the two.

Still, Laura wasn't the only one left reeling in the aftermath of the Pin's dealings. Most were just his hired thugs of course, and they were promptly arrested after the shootout in the basement. The bulls would take care of all of them so there was no need for Brendan to interfere and end up locked up with them. He was prepared just to keep his head low and wait for the fire to die down, maybe finally get a little sleep. Easy.

…but Brendan couldn't sleep, not after what Laura had whispered to him, not with that hang up. Even though he knew for a fact that there was nothing to be done about it, the fact still left him with insomnia, staring at the digital red numbers on his clock as they ticked slowly by. He'd finally stopped coughing, and his bruises were starting to yellow, but the word still lingered in his ears whenever he was alone with the silence.

That was his own shit though. It wasn't as though he hadn't already been hung up on Emily anyway, and this previously hidden piece of information was just the middle finger to his heart that would possibly help him move on from it. It was something he would have to deal with on his own, and he'd sleep eventually.

No, the thread that became the problem was a list.

He'd heard the buzz around the cliques at school about the list of ties to the Pin that had been found in his house. At first he'd thought nothing of it, knowing that his peers weren't happy unless they were gossiping about something and the high profile drug bust at the Pin's den was the biggest news in town. He hadn't expected anything of it, but he'd slipped into school early and headed to the Brain's hidden library corner.

Brain was reading a textbook as usual, the pages reflecting off of the oversized spectacles on his face, but he wasn't so immersed in his homework that he didn't notice Brendan's approach. "I take it you're here to find out what's the word on this list of the Pin's dealings," Brain said.

"I just want to make sure everything's square," Brendan replied, slumping into the chair across from the Brain's desk, his sight of Brain obscured slightly by a stack of increasingly more advanced math books. Brendan wondered not for the first time if Brain might be better off at a University somewhere rather than slumming away under piles of books, but Brain's problem wasn't so much intelligence as much as it was interest. Brendan knew that Brain was looking for something to keep his constantly whirring mind occupied, and when the lessons got too predictable, his grades suffered.

"I had a feeling you'd be here again," Brain said.

"So, what's the rap? Do I have reason to be listening to the word around town or am I making trips for biscuits?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Brain replied shrugging. "Rumor has it that there are some pretty powerful names on this list of the Pin's. It's possible his circle was wider than expected. They've got bulls sniffing in places clear across the country based on these names."

"So the bulls have the list," Brendan said, narrowing his eyes a little. "That sort of ups the legitimacy of it, rather than just a bunch of kids blowing smoke."

"I guess," Brain said. "I can do a little digging myself if you want, make sure there's nothing to see."

"Sounds good," Brendan said, getting up. "You can call me later tonight and let me know what you find."

"Okay. Oh, and Brendan?"

Brendan turned, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm as good as I ever was," Brendan replied and left the library before he could clarify what that meant.

* * *

Brendan was not all right. Sleep continued to elude him, and even though the dust was settling, a lot of his feelings about Emily and about Laura had yet to. He settled with tossing a tennis ball against the wall and letting it bounce back to him in order to help the time pass a little more quickly. His eyes were aching a little too much for reading.

It was nearly midnight when his phone started to ring from over on the table, the sound entirely too loud in the darkness. He grabbed it by the cord and let it fall onto the bed with a slight clang before lifting the receiver up to his ear. "Brain?" he said, voice hoarse from lack of use.

"Brendan—ah… look, can—can we meet somewhere?"

He sounded nervous. It was atypical of him.

"Yeah, uh, yeah," Brendan mumbled sitting up. The tennis ball rolled to the floor, forgotten. "Something wrong?"

"Not sure . Just. Back of the library. Meet you there in a half hour?"

"Yeah. I'll be there."

Brendan hung up and hopped out of bed. He adjusted the cuff on his jeans and then slid into a hooded sweatshirt. It wasn't as warm as his jacket, but he'd lost that in the scuffle with the Pin and Tug. He pulled the hood up over his scraggly curls and headed out.

He was there before the Brain, crouching by the wall and blowing into his hands to keep them warm. It wasn't particularly cold, the temperature in the low sixties, but he'd always suffered from poor circulation. The sky was heavy with impending storms as well, causing the wind to blow more strongly.

Brain arrived about five minutes after Brendan, hauling an armful of papers and looking a little frantic. "Oh, God. Brendan. Fuck."

"What's going on?" Brendan asked, instinctively checking behind the Brain to see if anyone had tailed him.

"I started looking into that list," Brain informed him, handing over the crumpled paperwork. "I came across a name of some gink—a John Wells, John Willis, something like that. Anyway, I started digging into his business, and I found something strange. It doesn't look like the Pin was using him to deal dope. It was something else entirely. Here—" Brain indicated one of the papers he'd brought. "He was dealing this stuff called Somnacin."

"What is that?" Brendan asked.

"I have no idea," Brain admitted. "All searches on it turned up zilch. I did a little hacking though, and…" He pulled out another sheet of paper from the stack, one with a blueprint of what looked like a briefcase bomb. "It has something to do with this."

"What is it?" Brendan asked, holding the sheet up so he could see it better in the light.

"I wish I could tell you, but as soon as I printed it off my computer went all screwy. I still can't get it back on. It's a miracle I got all of this. I think this is big, bigger than either of us could have expected. I mean, I don't mean to brag, but it takes a lot of skill to be able to put a stop to my hacking. This is dark-side-of-the-government conspiracy stuff we've got in our hands."

Brendan rolled his eyes but studied the schematic again. "So, what's it mean? Are we going to get copped for this?"

"I don't think the bulls know about this stuff. Like I said, searches dug up nil. I'm just saying that the Pin was doing more than trafficking your typical dope. Now, I know I didn't manage a lot of information before I lost my computer, but it doesn't even seem like the Pin was the leader of this operation. He was a bit player in a big show."

Brendan hummed, handing back the paperwork. "Well, that's out of my jurisdiction," he said with a sigh. "It's none of my business. All I wanted to do was make sure everything was set right when it came to Em. I'm not a copper. I'm not going to get rubbed out because I have some stupid sense of justice. I've taken care of anything I was concerned about. If you don't have anything else to tell me, then I think we're done."

"But Brendan," Brain said, and his voice wobbled just a bit. "I think it's good to let it lie, but… I mean, my computer pulled the Dutch act as soon as I stumbled upon their information. I can't guarantee they won't come sniffing."

"Burn the paperwork and play dumb if people start asking questions," Brendan replied around a yawn.

"Who's to say they'll be coming after me? A lot of their eggs got broken in the scuffle because of you, you know? I'm just saying that you need to be cautious too. There might not be blood on your hands, Brendan, but you didn't walk out of that job clean, and you know that."

Brendan stood, brushing the dirt off the back of his pants before glancing back at the Brain, frowning a little. "I'll look into it," he said, taking the paperwork.

"Keep your head low," Brain said, "and get some sleep. You'll think more clearly."

Brendan sighed through his nose. "Sorry about your computer."

"Nothing I can't fix with a little time. It'll give me something to do," Brain replied. "Be careful."

Brendan smirked a little bitterly. He didn't know the meaning of the word.

* * *

The rain had started by morning. It would have been enough reason to make Brendan want to skip class and stay in bed if it weren't for the fact that he had grown sick of staring at the four walls of his bedroom hours ago. He hadn't bothered to get undressed, so he just rolled out of bed, grabbed his bag, and managed to catch the bus without getting too drenched.

He'd spent the evening flipping through the information Brain had handed over, at least until his eyes stung too much to keep reading and re-reading. Getting out in the air that evening had cleared the fog in his brain for a little bit, but it hadn't given him the ability to decipher just what he was looking at. From what he could tell, quite a bit of it was in French, and while he knew a little French, the French was also in code. He didn't really have the patience to spend the rest of the night trying to decipher it, so he had put it aside and read over the things in English. They were, unfortunately, just as confusing. All he'd managed to get out of it was that this Somnacin was some sort of drug or maybe a sedative, and that it all had something to do with dreaming. Honestly, it was starting to look like a bunch of bunk.

Brain was entirely more convinced that it was something important. When Brendan met up with him at lunch to return the papers to him, Brain was sure that it was dangerous. "They installed a virus onto their own website as a failsafe to keep people out," Brain explained. "Anyone with the wrong I.P. address instantly is affected. Thankfully for me I know to store back-ups of everything I have, but you can't really think it's dust when they go to the trouble, right?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Brendan replied. "Keep it, burn it, do whatever you want. I still don't see anything worth giving it the up-and-down again. If you figure out the code and find something more interesting, you know where to find me."

The Brain sighed and put the papers in his book bag. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to tug on loose ends. Don't get mad at me if it doesn't turn anything up."

Brendan knew what he was trying to say, and he knew that there was truth in it. He knew that he was grasping at straws in the attempt to find something else to focus on other than Emily's body six feet under and the ghost of Laura's hands on his face. He wanted something to be left undone, to find something he had missed in order to pin blame for this entire ordeal on someone else, but he wouldn't admit to any of those things, not now. There was a selfish part of him that still wanted to believe that Laura had been out to help him the whole time, that she hadn't been a part of it, and that none of this would have happened if it weren't for him.

He couldn't admit it out loud, even if it was obvious, so he said nothing in response before he headed off to fetch his lunch out of his locker.

When he opened the blue locker door, no note fell out. He sighed through his nose and grabbed the brown paper bag out of the back. He slammed the door shut and checked the inside of the bag to make sure nothing had fallen out, and that was when he heard footsteps.

He turned, catching the silhouette of someone at the end of the locker cage, definitely too large of a man to be a student. He momentarily whirled with a case of déjà vu, recalling Brad Bramish's hired thug and his knife. This man was dressed much more nicely however, his visage both classy and somehow forgettable. White. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. _Unassuming_ , Brendan supposed was the right word. Either way, he didn't quite fit in with the school as his backdrop, and Brendan hadn't managed to get so far in life without being naturally suspicious.

"Are you Brendan Frye?" the man asked as he got close. His suit wasn't quite as fine when he could take in the details.

"Who's asking?" Brendan replied, taking a cautious step back, keeping his shoulder towards the man rather than his more vulnerable body parts.

The man didn't answer, instead saying, "Word around town is that your name has been pinned to the Pin. Cops can't place you at the crime, so they can't charge you with involvement, but that doesn't mean that everybody doesn't already know."

"People talk. Doesn't mean they're speaking the truth."

"I'm inclined to believe that you didn't go sticking your nose into the business of the Pin without planning on getting your hands dirty. You asked far too many questions for that."

Brendan studied the man's face—long nose, dark circles, probably in his mid-forties. He could tell from the set of his jaw that he was probably an authoritative type, though not necessarily aggressive unless provoked. His voice was light and casual, raspy like that of a smoker, and maybe a twinge of an accent. He'd never seen him in town.

"Uh-huh," Brendan said flatly. "So what? What does that have to do with you?"

The man's expression never shifted. He just took hold of his blazer and pulled it back, revealing a gat strapped to his side. "I think you'd better come with me."

Brendan stared at the pistol, jaw going slightly slack. He really didn't know how to get out of this. A knife was one thing, but he was pretty sure outrunning a bullet was far less likely. All he could do for now was stall.

"Where are we going?" Brendan asked. "I've got class in about ten minutes."

The man's expression shifted slightly to one of subtle exasperation. "We won't be long," he assured. "We're just going to have a little chat about your friend the Pin, savvy?"

Brendan's brow furrowed in confusion as he looked over the man's shoulder. "Is that guy with you too?"

Bless him, the man looked, and Brendan took that opportunity to violently shake up the grape soda he had in his lunch bag, and when the man turned back he cracked it in the man's face. It gave him a couple of seconds to make a run for it, and Brendan was relieved that he at least had the advantage of knowing the layout of the school. He bolted, rounding the corner in no time, running as fast as his legs could carry him. All the while he was skimming through every name in his head to try and figure out just why this guy was hunting him down and what his angle was.

The only thing he could come up with was the paperwork of Brain's. The loose thread he'd been pulling on. Brain had even warned him that they might come after him, but it had just seemed so stupid. He reminded himself that he really should listen to the Brain more often. There was a reason why he was called The Brain, after all.

His feet fell hastily across the pavement as he made his way across campus. He was afraid to risk looking behind him to see if he was being followed, so he just listened to the footsteps. He wasn't far behind. He realized that the man hadn't pulled out his gun yet, however, which made Brendan wonder if it wasn't just for show.

He wasn't going to kill Brendan because he needed information from him.

Well, that was good news at least.

Brendan made it to the sidewalk and made a dash for the parking lot. It was a lot of open space, but if he could just get across the asphalt then he could make a dive for some trees. It wasn't a guaranteed escape, but he didn't really have time to think of anything better.

 _Just a little further, just a little further_ , he kept repeating to himself in his head, lungs screaming, legs aching, blood zooming through his veins. He just had to make it to the trees—

_**POW!** _

The sound startled him so much that it took three more steps before he even realized he'd been hit. He tumbled gracelessly to the ground, head bouncing against the street and causing him to see stars. He cried out, lifting his head to look at his left leg, blood pooling where the bullet had lodged inside. He could feel blood on his forehead too, causing his hair to stick to the skin.

He lifted his head, biting back on a whimper as he panted raggedly, hand pressed over the leg wound. His vision was splitting and too bright, making him dizzy. The sound of the rain fizzled to white noise around him.

"You fucking— _fuck_ ," Brendan hissed as the man's figure loomed over him.

"You could have come quietly," he said and grabbed Brendan by the neck.

Brendan gurgled as the man started dragging him across the pavement, vaguely aware that a car was pulling up. Next thing he knew, he was being thrown into the backseat and there were hands all over him. He tried to fight his way off kicking and punching and screaming, but he was at a disadvantage. His vision was blurry (someone must have taken his glasses), he was exhausted, and he was in an immense amount of pain. He did the only thing he could do—cry out for help.

He only got out half of the word before he suffered another blow to the head and then everything dove into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

When Brendan came to, he felt like his head been split wide open. He cracked his eyes open to searing brightness that sent pain lancing through his nerves, blinding him. He winced, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to survey his situation using his other senses.

It was uncomfortably quiet, and his body was stiff against a cold, metal chair. His feet were tied to the legs, and his hands were tied behind his back. Goosebumps had risen on the skin of his arms from the chill in the air, magnified by the fact that his sweatshirt was now missing and his t-shirt and jeans were still slightly damp from the rain.

If his clothes were still damp, he figured he hadn't been here long. He couldn't be all that far outside of San Clemente if outside of it at all.

After a few deep breaths in the attempt to will the pain away, he ventured to slowly open his eyes again. The room slowly faded into focus. Metal table. Empty chair on the other side. Light bulb hanging naked from the ceiling. The floor was linoleum and the walls were brick, and there was a mirror built into the wall opposite him that he would put money on being a two-way. The thick door to the side of it was painted a rusted red color.

"Hey," Brendan croaked towards the mirror, "does somebody want to tell me why I'm here?" The walls of the small room seemed to swallow his voice, the silence creeping over it to squash it back down until the door creaked open.

In entered the man from before—the man who had shot him, Brendan remembered. He looked down at his leg and found his pants leg had been rolled up to the knee and the bullet wound bandaged up.

"I didn't want to shoot you," the man said lightly. "You didn't exactly give me a choice."

"What made you think I was just going to go with you?" Brendan asked. "You give me the buzz, threaten to fill me with daylight, and you don't expect me to blow?"

The man sighed, sitting down at the table, placing the pistol on top of it. "I merely wanted you to know I meant business. Look, we don't want to rub you out, all right? If we'd wanted you six feet under, you'd already be there. You know that, right? You're a smart kid."

Brendan only responded with a sniff.

"Okay," the man grumbled, running his hands over his hair. "Look. I've got you behind the eight ball here, kid, so can you try and cooperate? If you don't at least attempt to give us what we want, you're just as good dead to us as alive."

"What is it that you want then?" Brendan asked.

The man sat back in his chair, digging a gasper out of his breast pocket and lighting it. He took a long drag off of it before focusing his gaze on Brendan again. "You were involved in the war with the Pin. We both know that, so there's no need to be denying it here."

"I don't recall denying anything."

The man worked his jaw. Brendan really wished he had a name to put to this guy's face. "What we don't know," he continued, "is _why_. Why did you choose to get involved? Now, I need you to tell me what your angle is in all of this."

"Why? What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"We know someone in San Clemente hacked into our servers last night. We know you've got an inside guy doing the job, and while we don't know who that is, we do know what information he stole. We want to know what you expect to do with the PASIV."

For a minute Brendan thought that he'd cut off his sentence too early. Perhaps he was referring to Brendan's passive-aggressive behavior? That didn't make sense. All he could do was stare back at him blankly.

"We know you know about it," the man said.

"I know from nothing," Brendan replied simply.

"Don't play dumb," the man growled. "You working for Miles?"

"Who's Miles?"

"No one just goes looking for this information without plans to do something with it. Did the Pin tell you about it? Was he planning on using you in our circle? Did you sell him out to the bulls so that you could stake your own claim in the market? Spill."

"Listen," Brendan said, exhaling, "you can give me the third degree all you want, but I'm not lying to you when I tell you I don't know anything. I'm not your meat. You've got the wrong guy. Yeah, I was running in the Pin's circle for a bit, but he's dead, so that's over now. We can sit here jawing, and you can grill me all day, but my answer's going to be the same. I know from nothing. That's the crop."

The man looked frustrated, his anger simmering just below the surface. Brendan never faltered.

"We'll see." The man stood and left the room, twirling his gat around his finger as the heavy door shut behind him. The smell of cigarette smoke was still pungent even after he was gone.

Brendan had to think up some sort of escape plan, and he didn't know how much time he had to do it. He had no idea where he was (bad), was currently quite literally tied up (bad), and the contact his skull had made with the street was making it hard to concentrate for long periods of time (really bad). This mystery man really wasn't kidding when he said he had Brendan behind the eight ball. He knew that it didn't matter what he told them—they were going to believe whatever they wanted, and unless he played along they were probably going to throw him in a ditch somewhere and put a hole in him to make sure the trip to the big sleep would be as unpleasant as possible.

If he snitched about what he did know, he knew that it would be Brain in that ditch instead, and he wasn't about to put another body on his name in the attempt to come away clean.

Someone had to have noticed he was missing by now at least. He'd been at school earlier but hadn't showed up for class after lunch. Everyone probably thought he just cut out, went home to sleep. He was pretty sure even the VP wouldn't blame him too harshly considering the ragged state he'd ended up in by the end of the war. He'd gotten him answers by any means and helped take down the biggest drug ring in town—a little truancy was well-deserved.

It wasn't helping him now, however, since he knew no one would be asking questions just yet. He was always off somewhere else these days, so even his mother probably wouldn't realize something was wrong until a few days from now, and by then he'd probably already be bumped off. Brain would know something was hinky though, and that was who he could count on. The Brain had been wary about this information he'd dug up from the beginning, and if Brendan disappeared off the map, he knew Brain was smart enough to connect the dots.

He just hoped he connected them soon enough because escaping didn't really look like much of an option at the moment.

The door opened again, and Brendan turned to see the same man from before with two other men and a bulky silver suitcase. It took him a moment to place where he'd seen it before.

The blueprints.

"What's that?" Brendan asked, nodding his head to the case as it was set on the table.

"You know what it is," one of the guys, a dark-skinned man with a goatee and a tattoo of a four-leafed clover on his neck mumbled. He was some form of Middle Eastern, though Brendan couldn't identify exactly where. Egypt, perhaps.

The maybe-Egyptian man pulled out a syringe and pressed the needle to Brendan's jugular. "Hold still," he commanded, and Brendan wasn't about to disobey even if he didn't know what was in it.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" Brendan asked as the needle pressed inside the vein. After a couple of seconds he found himself growing rapidly woozy. A sedative.

The third guy, pale and rail thin with messy light brown hair and eyes of the same color, was watching the scene unfold from the other side of the table. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a cardigan, and a bowler hat with a feather in the brim, and he was quite possibly the least threatening man Brendan had ever seen. He couldn't have been much older than Brendan even, maybe in his early twenties. Brendan noted before his brain turned completely to mush that he might be his ticket out of here if he could convince him.

The last thing he heard was the smoking man's voice, "Haji, is he out?"

* * *

Brendan turned to look at the radio sitting on the counter. It was playing music softly, an older song, unfamiliar. " _Are you true, I wish I knew, I'm in the middle of a riddle 'cause I'm so in love with you_."

He took in the décor of the diner he was sitting in, the white tables and red booths, the cat-clock hanging over the bar. There were ketchup and mustard bottles on either side of the napkin dispensers on each table. Outside the window was a bustling street lined with shops.

" _Though I show I love you so, I've got the feeling you're concealing something that I ought to know_ ," the woman's voice on the radio crooned.

"Brendan."

Brendan jerked and then turned to look across the table. The Pin was sitting there, mallard-headed cane laid out across the tabletop, expression as unreadable as always. Brendan was pretty sure there was something he knew about the Pin that applied here, but he couldn't recall what it was.

He was about to ask the Pin what the hell they were doing in this place when a waitress came by and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. "Do you take sugar? Cream?" she asked.

"N-no, this… this is fine, thanks," Brendan said, nodding awkwardly. He turned back to the Pin to watch him accept a glass of orange juice.

The Pin took a sip from his glass before saying, "I'm in a bit of a jam here. As you probably already know, Laura's flown the coop, some of my boys have been planted, and a whole lot of others have been put under glass. I can't even go back to my joint because of the bulls. That's why I called you here."

"Oh," Brendan said, though he didn't remember being called. It made sense though, he supposed. Why else would he be here? "Um."

"I need your help. You know the drill."

Brendan didn't. "You need me to do something?" he asked.

"I've got a shipment of Somnacin," the Pin replied. "You're the only person I've got to run it. Think you can handle it?"

"I… what? I've never run drugs for you in the past."

"Yes, well… I'm a little understaffed, and you know how important this is."

"No… actually I don't," Brendan admitted. "What's… Somnacin? I… I feel like I've heard that before, but…" He winced, a headache suddenly sparking in his head. "Something… something is screwy here." He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, hoping the strength of it would help him focus.

…but the coffee was tasteless, as if he wasn't drinking a thing. "No, this doesn't make any sense. What's the grift? What's… No."

The Pin's expression was vaguely confused. "You don't know what I'm chinning."

The radio sang, " _I've got a feeling you're concealing something that I ought to know._ "

Brendan set his mug down, finding his hands were shaking a little. "You… Tug… Dode… Em… You're _dead_ , so you can't be real. This… all of this isn't _real_."

The entire diner fell silent except for the song on the radio, and he turned to see the staff all staring at them. A quick glance out the window showed that all of the people on the street had stopped to look in at them too.

Brendan felt a shiver run through him, but he didn't let his discomfort show on his face. He looked back at the Pin, or at least the person who was pretending to be him. "Who are you really?"

With a blink, Brendan was no longer looking at the Pin but at the skinny, pale boy in the bowler hat from… wait.

"You need to stay calm," the boy said. "Just take a deep breath."

"What the fuck is going on here?" Brendan asked.

He remembered now. He had been in that cold interrogation room, tied up. Three ginks had come into the room with that suitcase from the blueprints, and then he'd been injected with a sedative. That was all he remembered.

The cups on the table started to tremble as though an earthquake was rumbling beneath them.

"Brendan, I need you to stay calm. Seriously," the bowler hat boy said nervously.

The bell over the door jingled as it swung open, but both of them ignored it.

"Tell me what's going on!" Brendan demanded.

"L-look, my name Charlie, Charlie Figaro, and I'm a forger. My partners, Haji and Monroe—we're just trying to keep our heads above water, you know? This was the only way to be sure you were square when it came to what you knew."

"This? What exactly is _this_?" Brendan asked, but as soon as the question was out of his mouth, he immediately forgot about it. Someone was standing next to their table.

No. Not someone.

Emily.

"Uh… friend of yours?" Charlie asked, voice a little shaky.

"Am I dreaming?" Brendan asked.

"Actually—" Charlie started, but Emily leaped at Brendan, pulling a brick out of nowhere and smashing it into his face. The first thing Brendan registered was absolutely blinding pain. It would take a stronger man than him not to cry out, but he wasn't really sure what he was doing for a moment. He brought his hands up to his face, purely on instinct and found that they came back dripping with blood. He turned his eyes up to the offending figure only to find the brick crashing into his face again, shattering his jaw and causing him to spit teeth.

"You said you'd keep me safe!" she shouted, and Brendan couldn't even respond before the brick connected with his neck and snapped it. His body went numb and Brendan could practically feel his body stop functioning. He was _dying_. Then building was collapsing around them as Brendan's vision faded.

* * *

Brendan's eyes snapped open to the familiar white brick of the interrogation room. His arms had been untied so that Monroe and the other men could have access to his veins. That much was clear because his arms were on the table, and there was a long wiry tube connected to his arm via needle from the machine they'd brought in. The others in the room had them connected to their arms as well.

It was a dream.

It was really all just a dream.

…and they had been _inside_ of that dream. It didn't take two seconds for Brendan to put it together.

He yanked the needle out of his arm, flecking drops of blood across the floor but found he was still moving sluggishly because of the sedative. The others were already waking up, and he was still tied to the chair by the legs. He needed to move _faster_. Brendan moved to untie the binds on his legs, but he only managed to get one leg free before he heard a click.

Brendan felt before he looked up to find that Monroe had pressed his pistol to Brendan's forehead. "So. You want to say that you don't know anything now? Your subconscious ripped us apart when we tried to extract from you. You'd better spill right now."

"Monroe. Stop— _stop_!" Charlie interrupted, appearing in Brendan's view as he grabbed hold of Monroe's arm. "He knows nil. I was forged as the Pin and he still didn't sing."

"His projections are psychopaths," Haji complained. "You're going to tell me he isn't militarized?"

"The weapons were crude at best," Charlie replied. "That's not the mind of someone trained to fight off extractors—that's a mind of someone who's seen a lot of violence. He didn't even know he was dreaming. I can read people. I know it's the truth."

Brendan managed to tear his eyes away from the gun and look at the two. Monroe's face creased in conflict, anger threatening to spill out. "Well, Charles, what do you suggest we do with him then?"

"I—I don't know, Monroe," Charlie stammered. "I mean, yeah, he knows too much now, but isn't that sort of our fault? Haji even said we shouldn't jump to conclusions—"

"He's the _only one_ who could have," Monroe argued. "He's the only one with connections to the Pin that made a clean sweep of the joint when the war broke out. He's gum-shoeing for the bulls or maybe just for his own interests, but everyone else is in stir so it had to be him who sold out our supplier. He's the only one still free as a fucking bird! Wells is going to send his button men after us for fucking this up. It was our job to find the rat!"

"We haven't failed yet," Haji reminded. "It's just a minor setback."

Brendan cut his eyes towards Haji momentarily. He could tell what he meant by that immediately.

They would just have to off the boy who knew too much and keep on moving.

Then, Brendan remembered he'd managed to untie one of his legs.

With one swift movement, he kicked Monroe in-between the legs, and when he howled in pain, Brendan used the distraction to grab his gun. He threw himself to his feet and aimed the gun at the others while his free hand scrambled to get his other leg untied. The group was understandably a little caught off guard, and Brendan for one was grateful for that.

Haji moved for his own pistol, but Brendan got his leg free at that moment and surprised him by pitching the metal chair in his direction. The clang it made as it hit the wall mere inches from his head was a bit deafening. Brendan kept the pistol trained on the group as he backed up against the door. Monroe made a step and Brendan fired, the bullet burying into the wall. For a moment all they could do was stand there, waiting for the other to make a move.

Eventually, Haji snorted. "You don't even know if there are any bullets left in that pea-shooter."

In one swift movement, Brendan fired again, and this time the bullet slammed into Haji's shoulder. Brendan grabbed the handle of the device on the table, fired off two more bullets, and bolted out the door.

He tore through the warehouse he'd apparently been stashed in, pushing through the pain in his injured leg. He turned back to fire the last of his bullets without slowing his gait. They were firing at him too now, and he couldn't risk slowing down.

By some miracle, he made it outside, but he didn't stop. Rain was pelting him in the face, dripping into his eyes and sticking curls across his forehead, but even through the drops on his glasses he knew he was in the industrial district. He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and covered it with his shirt before hurrying across the street. He knew these goons wouldn't fire at him in a public area like this. There were people who could see and call the bulls (and odds were good that they'd already been called strictly because of the sound of gunfire). He heard a truck's horn blare as the others tried to give chase, and he used that moment to cut down an alleyway and then another. He took only a moment to remove his shoes and shove them under his arm.

Eventually, he made it out of the industrial district. He climbed a tree and sat in it, the device against his chest. He stayed there for hours, soaked through and exhausted, and only climbed down when he was positive he'd lost his pursuers. He put his shoes back on and trudged with squelching footsteps to a nearby payphone.

"Brain," he said after dialing. "Can you get your mom's car? Come and pick me up."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

"You don't mind a reasonable amount of trouble," was the first thing Brain said when he pulled up outside the phone booth. He was silent for a moment while he took in Brendan's appearance—hair and clothes sopping wet, his arms folded around himself as he stood there shivering. There was dried blood crusted to his forehead that no amount of rain water could just wash off. "Jesus, Brendan."

Brendan limped to the passenger side and climbed into the seat. His wounded leg was throbbing in pain after his daring escape. It was a miracle he'd managed to run on it at all.

He took his glasses off as Brain mercifully blasted the car's heater and scrubbed his face with both hands. "Drive somewhere but don't take me home or to school."

"My joint then?" Brain asked.

"Yeah, fine."

Brendan kept his eyes closed for the majority of the drive, letting the sound of the wheels on the asphalt lull him into a light slumber. Brain was thankfully quiet as well, considerate of the state he was in.

When they arrived at the house, Brendan followed him inside. It was a small and typical of the more modest San Clemente cul-de-sacs, sporting a single garage bay and Mediterranean-style design. Brendan and Brain slipped in through the garage, finding themselves in the laundry room. They continued through the kitchen, bypassing the living room where Brain's mother chuckled over the canned laughter on the television, and headed directly for Brain's bedroom at the back right end of the house.

Brain's bedroom was, for lack of a better word, cluttered. His bookcase was filled to the brim with different texts and piles of papers; brain-teaser game manuals that had probably been filled out too quickly to really entertain lay stacked. His desk was equally loaded high though with different bits and pieces of technology that Brendan couldn't identify as well as the blueprints from earlier. His bed was unmade, his clothes sticking out of his dresser drawers haphazardly, and in any empty spot on any available surface sat what had to be the kitchen's complete collection of coffee cups.

Brain left Brendan in the room for a moment, returning with an arm full of towels. "Here. Dry off. I'll get you some of my rags."

Brendan put the device down on Brain's bed (since there was quite literally no other place to put it) and stripped out of his sopping clothes. His wrists and ankles were bruised from his restraints, as was his arm where he'd ripped the needle out. The new marks were coming up in dark purples and blues on top of the canvas of fading yellow and green ones. Generally though, he seemed relatively unscathed apart from the bullet wound. He dried himself off and then pulled on a pair of Brain's boxers before sitting down on the bed and carefully lifting his leg to observe the wound. The bandages were about ruined from the water so it didn't take much to remove them. The wound underneath was a bit ghastly, but it had been tended to.

"What happened?" Brain asked, and he didn't sound terribly shocked or concerned. Brendan was pretty sure he was used to this by now. This truth was made all the more apparent by the way he dug a first aid kit out of one of his bottom drawers without even thinking and crouched down to look at the wound. Brendan recalled Brain patching him up a little after the entire thing with Jerr went down. Brendan had taken a knife to the side back then, and though it had only been a small cut, after Emily had dumped him he'd been too brokenhearted to keep tending to it and had allowed it to get infected. Brendan would trust Brain with his cuts and bruises far more than any doctor, so he'd been the only one he considered going to for help.

"Last time I did this, your face was just as wet," Brain said, peering at Brendan's leg in interest, cataloguing the shape of the hole and the extent of the damage. Brendan was sure Brain was having a ridiculously good time trying to figure out what sort of gat it was and exactly the distance there had been between Brendan and the shooter.

"There's no point in dwelling on past incidents right now," Brendan mumbled.

"So what's the wire?"

"Turns out you were right about those blueprints. You hacking into that system caused a real stir, and they want my head for it."

"Who does?"

"Not sure yet. All I know is the Pin was a supplier and dealer of this Somnacin, and now that he's cut down they want to find out who caused it. I guess they need a name to take back to their boss now that everything's flopped so they have someone to pin the blame on. My guess is that a stash of this stuff got snagged, and since you and I were poking our noses in, they think it was me."

"Why would you have nicked it? You don't even know what it is."

"Actually, I'm starting to understand it, but it's irrelevant because whether I knew what it was or not that doesn't mean I couldn't sell it. It does make me wonder who got their mitts on it."

"You know what it does?"

"Sort of, but again, it's not important right now." Brendan leaned forward at Brain's command and allowed him to clean the gash at his hairline. It stung, but Brendan had felt worse pain. "I imagine a couple of hours of you fiddling with that machine I brought will give more answers than my shots in the dark. Have you got your computer up and running again?"

"I'd be ashamed of myself if I hadn't," Brain replied, taping a bandage over the wound. "I don't think they'll be shutting me down again anytime soon either."

"Good. Let me know if any of these words bring anything up."

Brain moved to his chair and opened his laptop. Brendan flopped down on the bed. "PASIV is one. I think it's this device. Miles—he's a person, and apparently these guys want to know if I'm working for him. Extraction. Oh, and the names Monroe, Haji, and Charlie Figaro."

Brain was already hastily typing away. "Are you going to tell me what this PASIV device does?"

"It's not exactly simple to explain," Brendan sighed. "These three mugs hooked me up to it and used it to root around in my head. I was cooled before I could see how it works, but the next thing I knew I was sitting in a diner and bumping gums with the Pin."

"Drugged?"

"Dreaming," Brendan supplied. "Apparently this whatever-it-is allows access into people's dreams. That's all I could really get out of it."

"So maybe extraction means they were trying to extract information."

"Fits."

"Okay, so…" Brain was quiet for a beat. "Maybe Montgomery Miles?"

"Who?"

"English guy, lives in France with his wife and daughter. He came up on the first page of my search. There are lots of different articles here. He's got degrees out the wazoo in all sorts of things—art, architecture, psychology, physics. Says here that he's got a particular interest with working in the psychology of dreams. He might be your guy."

"It's possible," Brendan said. "Even if he isn't, maybe he'd be able to help out with this machine. Find out his contact information."

"What are you going to do in the meantime?" Brain asked.

"I don't know… Head hurts… I can't go back to my place."

"You can bunk here. I'll probably be up all night tinkering. Besides, you're supposed to rest when you have a concussion."

"I thought you were supposed to stay awake."

"Nah, that's a myth."

Brain hit a few keys on his laptop. "I'll have the computer do the work hunting down all this information. In the meantime, I definitely want to take a look at this PASIV device."

Brendan responded with a low noise in his throat.

"Hey," Brain said, "Put your rags on before you fall asleep."

Brendan let out another wordless sound but swung himself back into a sitting position. Unfortunately, it was a bit too sudden of a movement, and suddenly his head was spinning and he was falling forward. Brain somehow managed to catch him and haul him back onto the bed.

"You are just lousy with bad luck," Brain sighed and helped him into the sweatpants and t-shirt.

* * *

Brendan awoke the next morning to see Brain still sitting at his desk, tinkering. He likely hadn't slept a wink, but he didn't seem bothered by it. It wasn't that surprising—Brain wasn't called 'Brain' for no reason. He probably had a hard time turning his thoughts off at night, he imagined.

Brendan himself was tucked in, glasses on the bedside table. He felt achy and sore all over from his marathon run the day before (his leg in particular was throbbing rather badly). He didn't want to move, but he sat up anyway. At least his head wasn't hurting quite as badly.

He put his specs on and blinked sleepily. "Brain?" he questioned, voice still heavy with sleep.

"The mechanics of this device are fascinating," Brain replied as a good morning. "How's your noodle?"

Brendan ran a hand through the tangle of curls on his head. "Better. How'd the search go?"

"I pulled up some results," Brain said, "though there isn't much. These palookas who nabbed you have criminal records."

"Dope peddling?"

"More like theft. Apparently all sorts of governments have them on their most wanted lists for theft of information."

"And the PASIV?"

"You bet. If what I found is correct, it looks like this PASIV device has been used in the military, top secret stuff. This guy, Monroe, was part of one of the programs, went AWOL and took the PASIV with him. Apparently him and these other mugs have been using it on the criminal underground, but I wasn't able to find out much about that."

"So why have the blueprints online?" Brendan asked.

"I don't know," Brain shrugged. "My guess is that they've been upgrading it. It looks like they use it to go into people's dreams like you said, but I'm not completely sure of everything yet. I can only give you my best guess."

"Shoot."

"I would think they use it to steal top secret information—I mean, if you're dreaming, odds are you won't remember it much when you wake up, and this Somnacin stuff probably muddles it even more. If caught at the right time, that stuff can be pulled out of someone's brain and sold off to the right buyer without them even knowing it happened."

"I guess we can see why they're so wanted then, huh."

"These guys are small time compared to this John Wells. Seems to me like he's the high pillow in this 'mind crime' business."

"They're taking their orders from him. I guess the Pin was working for him too."

"So, what now?"

Brendan frowned, looking at his lap. "I don't know yet. I think I'm just going to lay low for a bit and then drop a dime for this Miles guy and see what he can do to help."

"You don't know the meaning of laying low. You always make everyone's troubles yours."

"Maybe so," Brendan sighed, "but I certainly don't want to go parading around town now that I've got gats trained on me."

"So, should I make coffee?"

* * *

The morning was spent digging up what little information there was on Brendan's captors, and admittedly it was far from satisfying. Apparently Monroe had lived a fairly ordinary life before his stint in the military. Haji had lived in Egypt at the beginning of his life but had settled in London when he was seventeen, initially going to school for architecture but falling into a life of crime when he owed some bad debts. He'd worked his way up through the crime circles until no one could touch him and then vanished a little over a year ago, popping up again in cahoots with the dreamshare community. Charlie had been a struggling actor with a lot of potential and had even had small parts in a few shows on the West End, but he also had a talent as a pickpocket. He was originally from Nevada, but he'd been living in California for two years now. He was also much older than Brendan initially thought, nearly in his thirties.

"So, what a surprise," Brain had said sarcastically, "they're criminals."

Information on Montgomery Miles was entirely scarcer. He had been published in a few journals but other than that was completely off the radar. Even his contact information was hard to come by. In the hours Brain spent searching, he was only able to come up with an e-mail address for Miles's daughter, Malorie.

"I guess you could always just ask her," Brain offered. After a few clicks, he pulled up a picture of her and announced, "You should _definitely_ ask her."

Brendan had been spending his time with a French translation book and the PASIV blueprints in the attempt to turn the code to English, but Brain's words caused him to look up.

Mal was young, vibrant, and absolutely stunningly beautiful. Her hair was long and wavy and the color of chestnut and her eyes a deep blue. Brendan knew immediately that she was dangerous.

"Dangerous?" Brain had said when Brendan had told him as much. "How is she dangerous?"

"In my experience, dames that beautiful have always been dangerous," Brendan replied.

"She's not Laura, Brendan. Or Emily. Or even Kara."

"How would you know?" Brendan asked. "Can you figure someone out by a photograph?"

As much as Brain probably would have liked to have that ability, Brendan and he both knew that wasn't the case. Brain conceded, "She's the only angle we've got right now, unless you want to go hopping a plane to France."

"I might end up going to France anyway," Brendan reminded.

"Yeah, well, a little communication would be a good start. It'll give me time to scratch a passport for you."

"You do it. E-mail her but be discreet about it. Don't tell her who we are or where we are. Just tell her what we got and ask for her help. Barber a little. See if she bites."

"And you? What are you going to do?"

Brendan sat down on the bed again, pulling the PASIV device close to him. "A little experimentation."

"Wait, you… you're going to actually use that thing?"

"If I get nailed by one of these lugs again, they might put me back under. Now that I'm involved in all this, the rap is in my head, and they could steal it. Potentially that'd lead to a whole lot of bad, so I want to be able to defend myself. To do that, I need to know how to navigate my own mind so they can't get their answers. I need to at least try to be ready for what I'm up against."

"We still don't know if it's safe though," Brain said cautiously. "What about dosage? What about time?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," Brendan said, sliding the needle into his arm and setting the timer on the device for ten minutes, just as a test.

"What if you take too much of that dope and don't wake up? I'm not taking the blame for your death, Brendan."

"Then you keep your eye on me and make sure I wake up in ten minutes. Send the email."

Before Brain could interject again, Brendan depressed the plunger in the middle of the machine and instantly felt himself get swallowed up by sleep.

* * *

Brendan found himself walking down the road. The land on each side of it was flat and stretched out for eons under a cloudy, gray sky. He didn't remember why he was walking there, but he did know that he was supposed to remember something now that he was here.

_Where am I?_ He thought. He seemed to be wandering in the middle of nowhere. From what he could tell, there weren't any buildings for miles… and that didn't make any sense. Why would he be sauntering down a road in the middle of nowhere?

_Oh_.

He had to think very hard, but slowly he managed to recall the device in Brain's room. The test he was performing. He was _dreaming_.

"Apparently my subconscious is pretty dull," Brendan said flatly as he glanced out across the vast nothingness. "Maybe I need to…"

As the idea came to him, buildings sprouted from the earth, rising up, up, up into the sky. They were simple towers at first, but as soon as a city surrounded him, the details started to fill themselves in. Windows and doors, thresholds and fire escapes and drain pipes and fireplaces… Signs and paint and flower boxes and trees… The world around him shifted and added and subtracted until he was standing in the middle of a city reminiscent of pictures he'd seen of New York and Chicago and Memphis. For several seconds all he could do was stare in absolute wonder.

He'd never experienced something quite like this before. He could definitely understand the appeal behind a machine like this.

With a turn of his head another building sprouted forth, and as he glanced out into the distance, neighborhoods started popping up. He blinked and there were people filing through the street, all faces vaguely familiar. Lots of them were kids from his school but others were people he'd seen around town. All of their faces had been buried in his mind somewhere all this time, even if he'd only seen them once or twice in passing. He was pretty sure Brain would be having a conniption fit if he was down in the dream with him right now. It was all just too fascinating.

He took to walking again, this time to explore the city he'd created. It was fairly simplistic, he supposed, all of it building up at simple intersections. It shifted at his whims, telephone booths coming together on the sidewalks and the streetlights flickering on as the sky shifted from day to night. The entire world was at his fingertips, though the people did not go as commanded. That was ensured when he mentally attempted to have one of the women on the street, a prim business type that reminded him a bit of his mother, hand over her briefcase. He was soundly ignored. He made a mental note of that.

He wondered how complicated he could make the city, so he got to work. It took him about an hour before he grew satisfied with his handiwork, street after street and alleyway after alleyway forming in the map in his mind. He wandered the streets, proud of his handiwork, nodding at passers-by strictly out of habit. For a minute or two, he completely forgot he was even dreaming. The world just seemed entirely real, and it was easy to pretend that it was until something else shifted slightly.

He did discover rather quickly that he didn't have that much say in what his subconscious filled the empty spaces with when he didn't think of anything in particular. He kept winding up mildly surprised as he came across something he hadn't expected, a street sign or a fountain that was reminiscent of San Clemente. The more un-thought of spaces he discovered, the more they were filled with the familiarity of his hometown, the only place he'd ever been. It crept in around the edges until he almost felt like he was awake and back home, and that was when he came across the tunnel.

God knows Brendan never would have put the tunnel there on purpose, but there it was, looming and dark as water trickled out from inside it. He was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, climbing down the concrete embankment and stepping carefully to the mouth. There wasn't even a hint of light inside.

Then there was the sound of footsteps echoing from inside. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Emily appeared before him, still in her white coat and plastic blue bracelets. Her nail polish was chipped, her brown heels scuffed, her waves of blonde hair dripping and matted. Even still, she was as beautiful as she ever was.

"I'm sorry, Brendan," she said, voice broken and sad just like it had been the last time he'd heard her alive.

"I could have saved you," Brendan whispered, unable to help himself. Somewhere inside he knew that this wasn't really Em, that this was just another piece of his own thoughts staring back at him, but she was so real, so _exact_ , that it was hard to accept. The slope of her nose, her eyes clear and blue, her plush mouth with a smudge of lip gloss at the corner… All of it had been memorized so thoroughly. He wished that he could remember her in a better state than this. She deserved to be more glamorous than a walking corpse.

"You don't love me," she said.

"You're the only thing that I love."

She pulled out a brick and swung it at his face.

* * *

Brendan threw himself forward when he woke, panting and eyes wide. He could still feel the phantom pains of his skull being bashed in, but a quick touch to his hair revealed that it was still very much intact.

"Whoa—" Brain had said, jumping back when Brendan awoke. "Well, at least you're awake. Christ, Brendan, you look like you've been on a hayride with Dracula."

"I'm fine," Brendan said, running his hands over his face as he calmed down, hiding the tremor in his fingertips. "I'm… I'm fine. I must have misunderstood that timer."

Brain leaned over it, checking. "Yeah, I guess so. It still says you've got four and a half minutes."

"What?" Brendan crawled over to the PASIV to check. Sure enough, the timer was still counting down. "I was wandering around for over an hour."

"I guess time just moves more slowly in a dream."

Brendan paused for a moment as he mulled over this information and then nodded, swallowing hard.

"So, what woke you?"

"I died in the dream."

"How did you manage that?"

Brendan was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "Don't worry about it."

Brain thankfully didn't ask questions.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"Brendan. Brendan, wake up."

Brendan stirred from sleep at the gentle shaking of his shoulder and lifted his head off of the pillow, taking a quick glance at the clock. "It's four in the morning," he grumbled.

"Malorie Miles emailed me back," Brain informed him, expression nothing but interested. It was moments like these where Brendan couldn't help but question if Brain was indeed human. Two nights without sleep hadn't seemed to have fazed him at all.

"Right," Brendan sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before grabbing his glasses and limping to the computer. He was still favoring one leg, but at least the pain had subsided for the most part. He'd always been a bit ridiculously resilient. He settled in front of the computer, finding the email waiting for him on the screen.

All it said was:

_Please return the device. They will leave you alone once it is no longer in your possession. –Mal_

Brendan snorted. "I didn't have it when they came after me. What makes her think they'll let it lie just because I handed it over to them?"

"That was pretty much my response at first," Brain said, "but I thought about it, and I think maybe she just didn't want to say anything online. Perhaps there will be more information to be had if you meet her in person."

Brendan hummed thoughtfully and then typed a reply.

_Come and get it._

_The phone booth at Sarmentoso and Del Rio in San Clemente, California, USA. Be there in three days and at twelve-thirty P.M. or you aren't getting it back. I don't expect a reward, just information.–B_

"You think she'll show?" Brain asked.

"If she doesn't, then I guess this thing isn't as important as I thought."

"And if she does show?"

Brendan studied Brain's face for a moment, thinning his lips. "I'll need to have an escape plan in case things go belly up. Can you get the car?"

"I don't know. That's a Tuesday, and my mom goes to work. As far as she knows, I'm at school during that time."

"Well, it's lunchtime," Brendan said as he mulled it over. "Perhaps we can borrow some keys. Keep your specs on, see if you can dip into someone's pocket and meet me at the phone booth no later than twelve forty-five."

"So you want me to steal someone's car."

"Borrow it. You can have it back in the parking lot before the bell rings and just leave the keys in the seat."

"You do it."

"I'm not about to show my face at the school and take another bullet to the leg."

Brain sighed, leaning his hip against the desk. "You know, for all the things I do for you, you should really be paying me."

Brendan smirked. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

On Tuesday, Brendan threw on a pair of Brain's jeans, a t-shirt, and a gray hooded jacket. He wore his own shoes and decided just before leaving the house to comb his hair back off of his face to the best extent that he could and then throw up his hood. A pair of sunglasses completed his nonchalant ensemble as he made his way to the phone booth, PASIV crammed inside a duffel bag so that it would look less suspicious.

He hadn't gotten a reply from Mal after he'd sent her one, so he really wasn't sure what to expect. All the background checks he'd had Brain run on this Mal Miles had turned up nothing out of the ordinary, but he didn't want to take his chances considering his own background check would probably come up pretty clean too. He had Brain on standby but there was no guarantee he'd get there in time if things turned ugly. It was entirely possible that he wouldn't be able to pilfer someone's car keys even if he was basically invisible to their peers, and if that was the case Brendan would probably have to run. His leg still wasn't in the best of shape for that kind of exertion. The only thing he had to defend himself with was a pocket knife. He supposed it was better than nothing, at least.

He arrived at the phone booth about ten minutes early and set the duffel bag down next to the curb. He sat next to it, shoving his hands into the armpits of his jacket as he waited. He couldn't help but think of Emily's panicked babbling from that day, the desperation in her voice as she'd begged him for help. It didn't matter what she had said afterwards; he just couldn't stay away.

All of that was over, but he was still causing trouble it seemed. Perhaps Brain was right in supposing that he'd gone looking for it. When things got quiet, all Brendan had were his thoughts and those were far more painful than a blow to the head.

He moved his hands to his pockets, right hand fiddling with the knife: flicking open the blade, gently pressing his thumb against it to test its sharpness (it was a bit dull), closing it. A car passed. Light blue sedan, San Clemente plates, driver talking on her cell phone. He heard police sirens go off in the distance only to stop after a few minutes. A few birds flew overhead, their shadows casting across the asphalt.

Then a car pulled up on the curb, classy and black, an expensive sort of brand with unassuming plates (obviously a renal), and all Brendan could do was stand up and stare as Malorie Miles exited the vehicle.

Her pictures didn't do her justice. Mal was absolutely stunning as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, dressed in a black skirt-suit and a wide-brimmed hat. Her hair had been pulled tight against her head and her eyes shielded by sunglasses. He would have almost guessed she was dressing incognito, if he believed that sort of thing was possible with someone like her. Instead she looked like a glamorous movie star from the black-and-white era of filmmaking. He felt oddly plain standing across from her, but he wasn't about to let something like that cloud his judgment.

Besides, underneath all of the glamour and beauty, he could pinpoint a fire, and in his experience that fire would swallow him up if he let it burn out of control. She was more dangerous than he could comprehend.

"Are you the one?" she asked, voice lilting with an accent.

"Maybe," Brendan replied, standing protectively in front of the bag. "I think that all depends on what you've got to say."

A smile ghosted across her lips. "Would you like to go for a ride?"

"I think here is just fine," Brendan replied.

Mal glanced around. "It's awfully open, don't you think?"

"The better to see you with… and anyone else who might be around."

"Ah, monsieur, are you trying to imply that you're the wolf here?"

"Are you trying to imply that _you_ are?"

A smile spread across Mal's face, radiant and mysterious. "I suppose that depends now, doesn't it, Monsieur Frye?"

Brendan raised his eyebrows.

"What? You didn't think I'd do my own research? All I had to do was look. Your name popped up a few times and was the only one that made sense. You aren't quite what I expected though, I'll admit. I knew you were still in school, but I suppose I just didn't picture you so young."

"I think you and I both know that age doesn't mean a thing."

Mal nodded, tilting her sunglasses down on her nose to observe him a bit more thoroughly. Her gaze was as sharp as a gunsel's, trained and exact in what she was looking for. Brendan stood perfectly still, hoping he had given her nothing she could use.

"So, Monsieur Frye—or perhaps I can call you Brendan, yes?" Mal asked, but she didn't wait for him to answer before continuing. "Brendan, I was under the impression that I was here to retrieve something taken from me, but it seems that you have an interest in grilling me for answers."

"You've got a wise head on you, I can already tell," Brendan replied blandly, keeping his cards close to his chest. "Do you honestly think these fellows who took your precious PASIV device are going to let me walk just because I don't have it anymore? Before I give it to you, I want to make sure I won't be chilled off over some stupid misunderstanding. They may have pegged me wrong when they thought I was the dope runner, but they didn't exactly let me have this thing, and I don't need another bullet in my leg."

"You're quite a pill," Mal said, smiling.

"You're not the first doll to ever tell me that."

Mal was silent for a moment her head tilted in consideration. The quirk of her lips said she was impressed by him though Brendan wasn't out to win her approval.

"So, what do you want from me?" she finally asked. "Protection? I don't believe I'm capable of giving that to you."

Brendan shook his head. "I can protect myself just fine if need be, but I need to know what I'm up against. I need details. I already know this is bigger than the Pin's circle of jake buyers, that this is big enough that the government itself could put me in the big house for a long time just for knowing about it. I've got criminals sniffing me out already, and if the bulls get wind of it they're not going to leave me be either."

"Seems to me like you've gotten yourself into quite a jam. A girl can't help but wonder what a fellow like you was doing associating with this town's kingpin in the first place."

Brendan knew she was baiting, but he wasn't going to bite just yet. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to judge a book by its cover? What makes you think I wouldn't associate with gees like him?"

"Because every dope runner you've ever associated with has been put in the penitentiary or the ground," she replied lightly. "It seems to me like you're in it for something else. Perhaps if you told me just what it is you've been trying to do, I'd be more willing to open up to you. What's your angle? Why put yourself in the crosshairs in the first place if you knew how it would end?"

"What makes you think I knew how it would end?"

"No one goes looking for trouble if they don't expect to find it."

Brendan watched her for a beat, expression carefully blank. "I had to take care of something, and when it was done I wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything."

"Take care of what?"

"Someone that I couldn't save."

Mal's expression softened minutely, almost as if she could see straight into his memory and pull out all the important parts he wasn't spilling. It was like she could see Emily, her blonde waves of hair floating in rainwater as she laid face down in a drainage ditch.

"I don't know what to do to help you, Brendan," Mal said softly. "You're involved now, whether by accident or not, and I fear there's no way to keep you out of it. You're not safe if you stay where you're at, but I fear there's only more danger ahead of you if I bring you into this world."

"It doesn't really sound like I have much of a choice."

Brendan listened as a car pull up around the corner, could hear it idling. He would just about guarantee that it was Brain.

"Look," Brendan said, taking a step back and shoving his hands into his pockets, "I honestly don't care what these guys are using this device for whether it's good or evil or what. If they want to steal secrets then that's their business. I don't have any interest in getting involved in a war to try and save your father's device from thieves or whatever it is you want them to stop doing. I'm not the middle man being coaxed into picking sides here. All I want is my name cleared and a chance to get back to my normal, mundane life. Clearly, these goons who fired at me and tried to hold me hostage aren't going to allow me to do that, so that leaves you. I can play cards with the big boys if that's what it takes, but I need to know what we're playing here. Tell me what I need to do."

"I'm not sure yet," Mal admitted, crossing her arms. Her eyes were trained towards the sound of the waiting car, suspicious and uncomfortable. She was entirely dangerous. "You'll need to be trained with the device, militarized in order to protect your thoughts should they capture you again. Even still though, they've got your name, and now that they have that it's only a matter of time before they track down you or the people that you care about. My father and I can help you with the first part, but I'm not so sure about the second. There's nothing to stop them until their particular crime ring and everyone associated with it is completely brought to its knees."

Brendan clenched and unclenched his fingers from inside of his pockets. "Well, then, I guess that's what I'm going to have to do, now isn't it?"

"Then I suppose your best bet would be to stick with my people, since we're both after the same thing."

"What makes you think I trust you?"

"I never implied that you did… nor did I imply that you should, Monsieur Frye."

Mal tapped Brendan's lips with the tip of a manicured finger. "Come to Paris. We'll take care of your mind."

"I can't exactly afford a trip to Paris."

"Give me an address and I'll send you tickets," Mal said, "for you and for whomever it is that's helping you."

"You're awfully confident that I'm not going to cut and run."

"I believe the thing you need most right now, Brendan, is someone on your side. You'll be safer in Paris, at least for the moment, but do be smart and not put your actual name on your passport."

"You're putting an awful lot of faith in someone you just met."

"Not faith," Mal laughed, as if the very idea of faith was ludicrous. "I simply am choosing my best options. You've still got the PASIV after all, though it'd be wiser for you to hand it over to me now rather than try and get on a plane with it without my father's name, and you're also the only person who's successfully managed to retrieve one from the crime ring. We may not trust one another, but you're certainly someone I'd like to have on my side for the moment. Don't think, however, that you can screw up and no one will come after you. I could just as soon send government men and criminals onto your trail as anyone else could, but I'm choosing not to. You're more useful than that. You're far from a patsy."

"No, I'm not a patsy, but what if I'm insane?"

"All good dreamers are," Mal replied with a shark-like grin.

Brendan was having a very hard time not liking Mal.

"Leave the tickets in the phone booth," Brendan said. "I'll check back here first thing in the morning."

"Then I'll see you in Paris, Brendan Frye. I'll have someone meet you at the airport when you arrive."

Brendan lifted the duffel bag with the PASIV inside of it up onto his shoulder. "You'll get your toy back when I make it there alive."

Mal left him with a gentle smack on the cheek and a red lip impression on the corner of his mouth. When Brain pulled the car around after she drove off, he quipped, "What is it with you and beautiful, dangerous women?"

"I have no idea," Brendan said as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car.

"Well, if you figure it out, you should bottle it and sell it. By the way, where do you want me to drop you off?"

"Back at your place, I guess. Whose car is this?"

"Who do you think? Who's stupid enough to let his keys get lifted in front of a whole crowd of people and no one notices?"

"Brad Bramish?"

"What can I say? He has a nice ride, and I sort of feel like he owes you one after sending a trained killer after you just for beating him in a fight."

"The high school reputation is a powerful thing, I guess."

Brain snorted.

* * *

By the next morning, Brendan had two plane tickets to Paris in his hands and Brain had two perfectly scratched passports to take with them. "You know, Trueman caught me at my locker just before I nabbed Brad's keys, asked about you. I didn't know what to tell him."

"There's no story to tell. All this is beyond him. We're not dealing with students anymore, so what he has to offer can't help me."

"It's possible he's just worried about you. You know, there could be some people who actually care if you go missing or not."

Brendan narrowed his eyes at Brain thoughtfully. "Regardless of his intent, it means my missing presence is starting to cause a stir. A phone call to my mom isn't too far away."

"What does she think is going on?"

"As far as she knows I've been in class and staying with a friend to work on a science project. She's disconnected enough that it convinced her, and fortunately she's obvious enough that no one would put any heat on her even though she's got a thin connection to me. She's never kept track of where I am or what I'm doing, so she'll be safe no matter what happens."

"If you completely take a bunk though, people are going to start talking more loudly than whispers. I guess all I'm asking is if you're sure dusting off to Paris like this is the best idea. This Mal could be playing you for sucker, have your throat slit as soon as you get there, and no one in France knows who you are."

"That's why I've got you. It's less likely anyone's going to be doing anything if there are two of us, but I understand if you don't want to op this time. There won't be any hard feelings if you want to sit this one out at home."

"It's definitely more action than I'm used to," Brain admitted. "Flying under the radar is more of my thing. All the same, I've operated for you twice in the past now, and it's not like it isn't partly my fault that you're in this jam anyway, so I'm not bowing out now when the good part is just starting. Besides, I wouldn't want these passports to go to waste."

"How is any of this on you?"

"I could have told you I didn't find anything. I could have told you I wouldn't even look into it. I didn't do either of those things, so blame is shared."

"I would have just done it myself if you hadn't done anything."

"Yeah, but then if you died your body wouldn't be on my name. It is now."

Brendan hesitated for a moment and then clapped Brain on the shoulder. "So what are you going to tell your mom?"

"Nothing. I never come out of my room anyway. She probably won't even notice I'm gone. Like I said, I'm good at flying under the radar. I blend into the background. No one notices me. It's a pretty comfortable spot compared to yours. You might get all the credit, but they're not firing bullets at me."

A corner of Brendan's mouth tilted upwards. "You're absolutely sure you want to do this?"

"Paris is supposed to be lovely this time of year."

That settled that.

* * *

Brendan slipped over to his own house in the middle of the night only long enough to cram a suitcase full of clothes and other provisions and then hurry to his and Brain's rendezvous point. Their flight left in about two hours and Brain had been spending most of the time between learning of the tickets and now to tweak the PASIV until its mechanics weren't detectable to the average airport scanners. Brendan didn't know how he managed it and frankly didn't want to know, so they both stayed silent when they reunited outside of Carrows to catch a taxi to the airport.

"What if someone's waiting for us?Someone… unsavory?" Brain asked softly.

"Then we fight our way out."

"I hope by 'we' you mean 'you'."

Brendan almost laughed.

"If all of this hits on all eight and we don't end up in dutch, you owe me. It's about time I got the girl at the end of all of this."

"Brain, if I got the girl at the end of things, I'd have the girl now."

"Not true. Happily ever after is horseshit, but I think I'd like to see how it feels for a bit."

"I'll see what I can do. Maybe you could win Miss Mal over."

"I'd have more of a chance with Kara than with a lady like her."

"That would be because Kara skates around with whatever yeg of the month can get her what she wants."

"Like you?"

"You live, you learn. My advice is to never date a skirt that even shows a hint of interest in a guy like me. It all turns out curtains in the end."

"Maybe it's time you shifted gears on what you're looking for. Someone who's not Emily."

Brendan gave Brain a look to let him know he was pushing it, and Brain promptly shut up.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

The airport was bustling with people, but Brendan's mind was elsewhere. Even over the dull roar of the chatter, the announcements over the intercom systems, the clacking of heeled shoes on tile, Brendan was focused on what was coming. He really didn't know what to expect when he got to Paris—it was definitely possible he'd be ambushed, have the PASIV confiscated, and be thrown into prison all because Mal let him walk right into the trap. For some reason he didn't think that would happen though. If Mal had been determined enough to take the PASIV she would have done it before and saved the money on the plane tickets.

Brain was decidedly less at ease over it. While they waited to board, Brain sat with his leg bouncing and hands fidgeting. Brendan supposed he had a right to be nervous. After all, they were two teenage boys traveling with fake I.D.s and passports, hauling a device that they weren't legally allowed to have. They'd made it this far, but there was no guarantee they'd make it through customs in Paris, and even if they did there was no guarantee they wouldn't be taken down by some other force, criminal or otherwise. A lot of things were up in the air with no way to call. The two of them were teetering on a tightrope and had very little keeping them from toppling off. Brendan was so used to rolling with the punches that it didn't matter to him either way, but Brain's mind didn't quite work that way.

"This could be a bad play," Brain mumbled.

"It'll play however it plays," Brendan replied casually so as not to draw any attention to the two of them. "There's not much point in speculating."

"She said someone would be waiting for us. What if they want to off us and take the device?"

"It'll play how it plays, Brain," Brendan said again. "Besides, I doubt she'd go through this kind of trouble. You're with me so don't worry so much."

"I'm with you, and that's the exact reason why I'm worried. You've sort of got a reputation of being a bit of a punching bag."

"I can hold my own. If I have to get slugged in the face to get a TKO, then I'm going to do that. I didn't make it this far in life by looking good, that's for sure."

"Yeah, well, I'm no looker either but if it's all the same to you, I'd still like to not get my face bashed in."

"If it comes down to a brawl then you can always heel it. I can take the hit."

"Sometimes I wonder if you want to be left to die."

Brendan rolled his eyes. "You can still go back if you've changed your mind."

"I'm not saying that I want to bow out. I mean, can you really blame a guy for being apprehensive?"

Brendan had to give him that, he supposed. "Just try not to worry so much. If you recall I've got experience in turning a bad hand into a good one every once in a while."

"Yeah, well, one can't help but worry when that luck of yours is going to run out."

The artificial voice of the loudspeaker announced that their flight was now boarding, so Brendan got to his feet, hauling the PASIV along with him. "Come on, Sam," he said, smirking a little. Samuel Spade was the name Brain had put on his fake passport. Brendan had thought it was a little obvious, though not as obvious as his own.

When Brendan had scoffed at the name _Arthur Doyle_ , Brain had assured him that Brendan was enough of a detective to live up to the name.

* * *

The flight was about twelve hours, so Brendan had a lot of time to sit and think. All of Brain's caffeine-fueled power cells had finally given out, so he was snoozing silently in the neighboring chair with Brendan's coat draped carefully over his body. As odd as Brain was during his nearly endless waking hours, Brendan found him much more bizarre in sleep. At rest Brain looked no different than any other kid Brendan had seen around school—innocent enough and not nearly so tortured with an overwhelming amount of intelligence. Brendan knew what Brain was capable of, but when he saw him like this he felt guilty for including him in the entire fiasco. He could handle it, sure, but it almost seemed unfair.

The last thing Brendan needed at the moment was more guilt, so he decided to focus on other things, mainly Mal Miles. He didn't trust her one bit, even if he did feel safe in the fact that she wouldn't be sending thugs after him (yet). He hated that his options were currently so limited, hated that the Miles family seemed to have a fairly good handle on what sort of information got out about them. Brendan never liked having holes in his stats, especially when it came to people he was working with, for, or against. He didn't know who else was involved in the dream studies, and that concerned him…

After all, just because the PASIV device was too important to Mal and her family to risk losing it in a shootout or attack, that didn't mean other members of their party would think it quite so valuable. Brendan would have to play his cards close to his chest and do his best not to piss anybody off unless it served some sort of purpose. It was the only way he wouldn't end up cut down.

He closed his eyes, a headache forming in the middle of his forehead. For some reason he thought of Laura. He wondered where she was, wondered if the bulls had caught her. Maybe she'd made it to New Orleans. Maybe she'd gone even further. She was smart, but more importantly she was crafty, so it was entirely possible she'd made it out of the country.

It didn't even matter now, but he still entertained the idea of getting off of the plane and seeing her walking down the streets of Paris in designer sunglasses, her heels clacking against the pavement and a cigarette dangling from her lips. He couldn't decide if the mental image made him sick or not.

He got out of his seat and made his way to the lavatory, closing himself inside and splashing water on his face. His eyes looked tired and listless even to him. The water had helped clear his head for a moment, but the glassiness was already settling in his eyes again, and all he could see was what was in front of him. His hair was a wreck, possibly worse than usual. The old bruises on his face were now a pale, sickly yellow-green while the fresher ones were still gray. He hadn't shaved, so there was a dusting of stubble on his face, and it was in that moment he realized he forgot his razor in his rush to get in and out of his house without being noticed by anyone. He figured he'd have to borrow Brain's again (though it wasn't like Brain needed it, given that he really didn't have the knack for growing facial hair). He made an attempt to tame his hair a bit, to try and make himself marginally more presentable, but it just reminded him of how Emily used to comb her fingers through his hair. It made him shiver, as if her ghost was standing right behind him. For a moment, he hallucinated that she was, but when he blinked she was gone.

Brendan knew he needed to get himself together, even though all he wanted to do was sleep.

With the PASIV device, however, it was hard to tell if he wasn't already.

* * *

"Hey," a voice reached Brendan's ears before he was fully aware of what was happening. He cracked open an eye at the jostling of his shoulder and found Brain watching him, as wide awake as he ever was. "We're touching down in a few minutes."

"Oh. Good," Brendan yawned, sitting up in his seat and buckling his seatbelt. His back ached from the awkward angle he'd slept in.

"I tried to wake you up to eat, but you wouldn't budge. I thought you were dead for a minute there."

"Nah, just tired," he yawned again, pulling his glasses off to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I was ready to call the croaker before you started snoring. I thought someone might have given you a Mickey Finn, but then I remembered you hadn't had anything to drink."

"Relax," Brendan sighed. "Don't be so paranoid. We haven't been made just yet."

"Well, how am I supposed to know for sure?" Brain asked. "I made the mistake of falling asleep, and when I woke up you were already out. Considering the delicacy of our situation, I feel like I've sort of got the right to keep my specs on."

"Good to know you've still got your wits about you, Brain," Brendan said, smirking.

"A twelve-hour flight isn't going to destroy my wits. Don't you worry about that."

Brendan faced forward again, sliding his glasses back on. "You checked the overhead compartment when you woke up, right?"

"Of course I did. Everything's eggs in the coffee."

"Let's hope it stays that way."

* * *

When they got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle airport, it was safe to say that both of them were worried and exhausted. They'd already spent a half hour in line at Immigration, neither of them spoke French well, and they had no idea if they were going to make it through customs until they were already through. Brain's grip on the PASIV device's handle was white-knuckled, but at least he didn't appear obvious as he scanned the crowds for possible pursuers. Brendan was looking too, of course, but his thoughts were getting more jumbled and foggy the place was a little overwhelming.

Mal had said that she'd send someone to meet them, but the longer they stood there with the gray afternoon light making its way in through the glass ceiling to mingle with the artificial light inside, the more apprehensive Brendan felt. He still doubted Mal would send anyone to rub them out after bringing them all this way, but that didn't mean that someone couldn't have intercepted her man and taken his place. Brendan knew to remain guarded, but guarded only helped so much when looking down the barrel of a gat.

Brendan snagged the PASIV from Brain's hand, clutching it in his own instead as he nodded towards the doors leading to the street. "Come on. We'll wait outside."

There were more people out there and it would be easier to make a run for it if needed. Brendan seriously hoped it wouldn't be needed.

There was a dusting of slushy snow on the ground when they stepped outside, being that it was February. Brendan and Brain didn't exactly have heavy coats on hand considering they were native to the slightly warmer California, so the cold ripped right through their jackets and into their bones. Brendan hunkered down into his hooded sweatshirt and scanned the passers-by for anyone suspicious. There weren't all that many people around considering tourism was down during the winter months, so it didn't take long for Brendan to meet the gaze of a man staring straight back at them. Brendan knew immediately that they'd been found first.

They must have been obvious, standing out there in their windbreakers, Brendan holding onto the cold metal handle of the PASIV like a lifeline despite the fact that his fingers weren't gloved. Brendan momentarily entertained the idea that they weren't nearly as prepared for this as he originally thought, but he continued to grip the handle of the PASIV, ready to turn it into a weapon if necessary, as he watched the man approach.

He was in his twenties, white though tanned from recent exposure to the sun somewhere warmer. He had probably been in the military, judging by his buzzed hair and worn lace-up boots. Brendan knew that meant that he was probably tougher than he looked. This man was barely older than Brendan, thin and lean in the frame, but the muscle was more disciplined than Brendan's scrappy physique. His features were strong—brows naturally arched, nose straight and slightly pointed, cheekbones carved into his face like those on the bust of some Grecian or Roman warrior, and yet he had an entirely delicate looking mouth, lips plush and chapped from the cold and holding a cigarette. Had this man been described to Brendan in words, he wasn't sure he would have been able to picture him as anything but absolutely ridiculous, but somehow the odd pieces fit together in a way that worked, oddly enough.

The man sauntered up, casual and relaxed, but Brendan could tell he was watching their every move, waiting for them to make a wrong one. "Ah, hello," he said, voice distinctly English, "are you the blokes here for the class at the University? Professor Miles told me so much about you, said you were the best and brightest across the pond."

"We're your meat," Brendan replied, sizing the man up. He was about the same height as him and gave off an air of indifference that made him seem entirely harmless—a mere messenger. Brendan could see it in his eyes though, the kind of intelligence and distrust he'd seen in Laura's eyes and in the Pin's eyes. This man was a grifter, a con-man, and he was far from a nance. They would need to be careful around him. Like Mal, he was entirely dangerous. "I'm Arthur, and this is my friend Sam."

"Eames," Eames said, holding out one of his large hands to shake. Brendan took the hand with the one not holding the device and then Brain did the same. "I'm one of Miles' students. He asked me to come here and pick you up. Shall we be off then?"

Brendan glanced at Brain and then shrugged one shoulder. "Sure," he said.

Eames led them to a parked white Range Rover. By then Brendan and Brain were flushed and shivering, so the escape from the bitter wind was much appreciated. Eames stomped on his cigarette before climbing into the driver's seat and put the keys in the ignition. "I'm glad I found you so quickly," Eames informed them, turning on the heat. "The car's still warm."

Brendan finally relinquished his hold on the PASIV to set it between his legs and hold his hands up to the heating vent. Brain sat in the back with his hands pressed between his knees, clearly itching to dig his laptop out of his bag and do a search on this Eames fellow. Brain trusted him about as much as Brendan did.

Eames drove them out of the airport and made his way through the streets, slow and careful. "I bet you two are knackered from that flight, yeah? Twelve hours, man, Jesus. I bloody hate flying. I suppose it's tolerable if you're not in economy class though."

For a moment Brendan thought that maybe this guy was just the messenger, that he had no idea why they were actually here, but something about him kept Brendan on guard.

"Is Eames your real name?" he asked, narrowing his eyes a little.

Eames snorted before grinning a mouthful of crooked teeth. "No. Is Arthur yours?"

Brendan chose not to answer. "So, where are we really headed?"

"I'm really not at liberty to talk about it," Eames replied lightly. "I haven't blindfolded you though, so feel free to study landmarks just in case you feel like you need to run. I guarantee that you won't feel the need to. Mal already seems a bit fond of you, wants to help you."

"Yeah, well, beautiful girls have wanted to help me in the past and it didn't work out so well," Brendan replied flatly. "Forgive me if I'm a little apprehensive."

"Quite a hit with the ladies, are you?" Eames asked. "I don't think you've got much to worry about with Mal."

"The fact that you work with her and you're saying that makes me all the more inclined to believe she's dangerous."

"Do you find me dangerous?" Eames asked, sounding absolutely delighted.

"Entirely."

A moment of silence passed between them, the air sparking with tension, but then Eames's eyes were turning to the rearview mirror. "So, Sam—or so you say you are, you're staying warm back there, yeah?"

"Oh. Um. Yeah," Brain said. Brendan had almost forgotten how awkward Brain was when communicating with other people. They'd known each other so long that it had never been an issue, but there was a reason why Brain was a social pariah. He couldn't fake his way through it like Brendan could. He wasn't a smooth enough talker.

"Good, good," Eames said. "Wouldn't want you to be too cold. Don't you Americans have coats?"

Brendan sensed he was fishing for their home location, but neither of them bit. Odds were he'd get the rap from Mal later anyway.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" Eames asked after a moment, driving the car with his knee while he fished the deck of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his coat. Brendan saw Brain physically tense, but a minute later Eames had a cigarette between his teeth and a hand was back on the wheel while the other fished a lighter out of his pocket. "I just can't seem to quit these damned things. I've been trying but I suppose we've all got our vices."

"You don't have to fake pleasantries with us," Brendan said.

Eames tilted his head towards Brendan but didn't look at him directly. He tapped ash out of the cracked window and took another long drag on the cigarette before responding, "You don't take any shite."

"I'm not here for games, Mr. Eames," Brendan replied frankly.

Eames let smoke slither out from between his plump lips, tapped ash out the window again. "Now where in the process of getting hunted, shot at, and taken into a dream in the attempt to steal your secrets did you ever start to think anyone was playing a game, Mr. Frye?"

Brendan raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, sorry. _Arthur_ ," Eames corrected himself, toothy grin on his face. Brendan wasn't sure whether he wanted to slug him or not.

"Mal already told you all about me," Brendan said softly, fists clenching on his knees.

"You didn't think she'd send me in blindly, did you? You've already figured out I'm not the stupid messenger boy, after all. Don't know much about your mate though, but she didn't meet him, now did she?"

"Well, if it helps, there's nothing about me to know," Brain offered from the backseat.

"Oh, I'm sure that's a load of bollocks," Eames said delightedly, meeting Brain's eyes through the rearview mirror. "You wouldn't have been brought along otherwise."

Eames turned his gaze back to the road, but his confidence never faltered. "Now, now, there's no point in shooting daggers at me with those eyes of yours, Arthur. I promise that no harm will come to you provided that you cooperate well enough. We're well aware of your lack of interest in staying involved and that you're only trying to protect yourself. Mal genuinely wants to help you. We've just got to cover our own arses as well. You understand, right?"

Brendan adjusted his glasses and turned to look out the window. Paris was gloomy and dripping, snow drifts a brownish gray on the sidewalks. It was nothing like the photos he'd seen in the past. He remembered how Emily had mentioned once, back when they were together, when they were lying in bed and his hand was tangled in her long, blonde hair that she would have liked to see Paris. "It's got to be so much better than here, you know?" she had said. Brendan had hummed sleepily and pulled her to him and pretended he didn't feel the hesitance in her kiss.

Emily's hopes and dreams never had lived up to expectation.

He pressed his hand up to the glass, feeling the cold seep in through his palm. For a moment the world behind the glass faded away, and he only saw the misty reflection of himself. He looked like a ghost.

It felt like he blinked and suddenly the car was being shut off. His head was tilted against the glass of the window where his hand had been, and they were parked in front of a sprawling, white villa with steps leading up to the front door and bushes lining the sides. There were balconies with decorative black iron, a gate surrounding the property that matched, and all around it appeared a place that Brendan never thought he'd step foot in. Even in the dreary weather the place was absolutely incredible.

"Have a bit of a kip?" Eames asked, startling Brendan out of his thoughts. "I'm a bit surprised you managed it, considering how little you trust me."

"He can sleep without issue because he's got me to keep my specs on for him," Brain interrupted.

Brendan appreciated that Brain knew where to pick up the slack when he faltered. "So, this is Mal's place?"

"Indeed it is. Montrouge has a lot of beautiful places like this, but this one was her favorite. She has a bit of an eye for architecture… and architects too, I suppose. Come on, let's get you two inside and get you fed or you'll be absolutely useless."

Eames didn't bother helping them with their bags or even to stand around and wait on them. He just wandered off for the door with his hands in his pockets, and Brendan was perfectly fine with that. He didn't trust Eames to handle his things anyway.

"Well, at least you and Mr. Eames have a bit of a rapport going on," Brain mentioned as he hauled out one suitcase and handed it over.

"That's not exactly how I would have phrased it."

"He's kind of hard to read, isn't he?"

"That's what worries me."

"So, what's your plan to tip the scales in our favor?"

Brendan paused to think about it a moment. "Sit back and keep him at arm's length."

Brain scoffed as he started following Brendan up to the house. "You could do with a little more specificity."

"Yeah, well, I'll let you know when I have it. I don't even know what's waiting for us inside of this joint, so all we can do right now is keep being cautious. He might know my name and where I'm from, but that doesn't mean he's got the wire on us yet. Right now I don't have much choice but to tie one eye up watching him and Mal and anyone else whose hands are in this."

"There's not much chance of coming out of this one clean, is there?"

"Maybe, maybe not. It all depends on what we're up against… and there's only one way to find out about that," Brendan mumbled and made his way up the slick, icy steps and into the looming house before them.


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

The inside of Mal's house was clean and modern and perfectly put together. With its white leather couches, black accent furniture, and red throw pillows, Brendan felt like he was standing in a room that only existed on magazine covers. The hardwood floor left no secrets of his footsteps as he moved further into the room, unconsciously moving towards the fireplace where it was warmest. There were quite a few voices coming from the room to the left, and through the archway he could see a dining table and a hint of the kitchen. Eames was one of the voices, Mal another, and there were a couple of others he didn't recognize.

"This is quite the place," Brain marveled from behind him, stamping his feet on the welcome mat before shouldering the door closed. "You won't find houses like this back home."

"Not in this style at least," Brendan supplied, setting his bags down and rubbing his hands together. "It's about what I'd expect out of Mal."

"Glad to know you can read me so well, Mr. Frye."

Both of them jolted before turning towards the doorway where Mal was leaning, dressed in a man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up and paired with finely tailored black pants. Her hair was tied back, though not as tightly as he'd seen last time, a few loose curls falling around her face. Without the sunglasses, Brendan could look directly into her dark blue eyes. She seemed softer, more approachable, but he still had every intention of keeping his distance.

"You boys must be starved. Come and sit. I've made spaghetti."

Brendan glanced first at Brain who shrugged and then made his way through the archway, shying away from Mal's hand when she reached out to touch his shoulder. She didn't seem the least bit bothered, moving back around behind the kitchen island to turn down the heat on the stove. Brendan tried to stay focused on the people moving about the room towards their seats rather than on the enticing smell of the food, but it wasn't easy. He hadn't eaten in over a day, and it was causing his thoughts to blur around the edges. It made the conflict he was fighting with over being awake or being in a dream all the more difficult to define.

All he could do was sit in one of the unoccupied chairs and accept the steaming plate of spaghetti covered in meat sauce that Mal placed in front of him. He needed to get his thoughts together.

As he ate, the fog in his head dissipated a little bit, and he was able to take in the people around him. There was an older man to his right at one head of the table, a man whom Brendan was fairly sure was Mal's father. Brain was to his left and Mal at the other head of the table. Across from Brendan was Eames, looking just as delighted as ever, and next to Eames was someone Brendan didn't know at all. He was a young man, probably around Mal's age, blond and scrappy, a little too bright-eyed and a bit too handsome to be completely sane.

"You're not much for introductions, are you?" the old man mentioned, and when Brendan glanced back at him, the man was smiling.

"I would have thought Mal would have already shared with the rest of the class," Brendan replied after swallowing a mouthful of food and licking sauce off the corner of his lips.

"She says that she expects you to be a promising student."

Brendan looked back to his plate and took another bite.

"Well, if you need to speak with any of us, you can just call me Miles," Miles said. "You've already met Eames and my daughter, and that young man is my best student, Dominic Cobb."

Brendan took note but said nothing.

"Uh, he's Arthur, and I'm Sam," Brain supplied awkwardly when it was obvious Brendan was going to remain stoic.

"Are those your names then?" Miles queried a joyful skepticism in his voice.

"They are the names on our passports," Brain replied, chipper. He couldn't stumble over something that wasn't false after all.

"Considering we all already know your real name, Mr. Frye, don't you think the alias is a bit unnecessary?" Eames piped up, the cheeky bastard.

"You don't know his name," Brendan replied lightly, tilting his head towards Brain. "Hell, I don't even know his name."

Brain's brow furrowed momentarily, but then he just shrugged and sipped at the tall glass of water next to his plate.

"Oh," Brendan added, "and don't call me Mister."

"Well, don't bloody call me Mister either, _Arthur_ ," Eames replied, grinning as if he was having a marvelous time. That seemed to be Eames's default emotion.

"Actually, the use of an alias is probably for the best, even if we already know your name," Dominic mentioned, though he never paused in his devouring of Mal's (admittedly delicious) meal. He was clearly American by the accent, though Brendan couldn't decipher from where. "It helps you get used to the name so if we're in public and need to get your attention, you'll respond to it. Probably best that we don't go shouting your real name over crowds, considering these guys who are after you know it too."

Brendan blinked. "That's right."

"Ah, so you're smarter than you look," Eames teased and Brendan was tempted to jam his fork into the top of Eames's hand, but all he did was glare at him for the moment.

"Eames, Arthur is our guest. Do try not to antagonize him or his friend," Mal said, her voice lilting and soft. It made Brendan think of Emily's voice, softly crooning out her favorite song of the week while she got dressed, the melody sending him to sleep. The memory made his eyes water a little.

"So," Brendan said, swallowing a gulp of water, "tell me about this John Wells guy. What's his angle? What does he want exactly?"

"Sorry, but why exactly do you need to know that?" Eames asked.

"He's the reason I'm here," Brendan replied flatly. "The palookas who work for him are the ones that fogged me in the leg and took me hostage because they thought I was part of a sting brought about by the rest of you."

"Oh? Why is that? Pardon me, I haven't been filled in on all the details," Eames responded. Brendan could tell he was enjoying ruffling his feathers way too much.

"Eames," Mal warned.

"They were in dealings with the Pin," Brendan said softly, not raising his eyes from his plate as he pushed food around with his fork. "I ran with his gang for a bit. War broke out and everyone ended up in the can except for me. Maybe some of their stash went missing that night. The Pin had already lost a brick, so it's not impossible. I guess they thought I did it."

"Well, if not you then who did?" Cobb asked.

"I don't know, and I don't care," Brendan shrugged and took another bite before proceeding to talk with his mouth full. "They already know I didn't take it, but I did lift their PASIV device on the way out of their hostage situation. I knew they weren't going to just let me go since I knew what they were up to, so I figured I might as well get it out of their mitts. So what's the deal? Why'd they have it? Who's John Wells?"

"I think I can explain that," Miles said, setting aside his half eaten plate and taking a swallow of wine before continuing. "Mr. Wells was the one who started using my PASIV device in the military. My wife and I started out creating the device with the intent of helping those with mental disorders, wanting to attempt to see into the subconscious of human beings with our own eyes to find what is causing the distress. Wells came to me after reading about my research and asked to incorporate it into the military. I suppose I was naïve to think he would be using it to help soldiers."

"What did he do with it?" Brain asked. Brendan took another swallow of water and pretended not to notice Eames's foot lightly kicking his own as if to make sure he was paying attention.

"He started his own studies, started using it to train soldiers to feel nothing when killing each other, had hordes of them convinced they weren't even awake in reality."

"That's ridiculous," Brain scoffed. "How would they not be able to know they were awake?" The skepticism slid off of his face as soon as Brendan uncomfortably shifted in his chair. Brendan wondered if he was being obvious or if Brain just knew him well enough to read his tells.

"You'd be surprised how difficult it is to discern," Mal said. "It comes with the territory of our fantastic human minds being able to fill in the holes."

"Besides, if you think about it, dreams feel normal while you're in them. It's only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange," Cobb said, and again that too-interested brightness was in his eyes. Brendan had a feeling that it would get him in trouble later in life, but Mal seemed to look upon his passion with fondness. "You could dream you're riding a roller coaster on the moon and it makes sense at the time, but as soon as you awaken you realize that never could have happened. When the dream world created around you is set to be realistic, it's even harder to discern."

"Wells didn't seem to realize that allowing these soldiers to get lost in the space between the actual and the fictional would have detrimental effects. They were killing machines, but they were torturing themselves as well. Several of them killed themselves in the attempt to wake up," Miles said softly.

For once Eames's expression sobered. It was a blink-and-miss-it response, but Brendan caught it.

"So what happened?" Brendan asked, but his eyes didn't leave Eames's face until the other man met his gaze.

"Well, when the soldiers start killing themselves on the battlefield then there's clearly a problem. They dishonorably discharged him from his service. He stole a PASIV device however, and that was when the governments started hunting for him. It seems that various world leaders were convinced he could perform acts of terrorism with the device, which I suppose isn't completely incorrect considering it's currently being used to steal the thoughts of the enemy of the highest bidder. They also shut down my practice and had all of my prototypes destroyed."

"So the reason you want the PASIV I stole is because you don't have one," Brendan said.

"Oh, no, we have them," Mal assured him lightly. "Papa built the originals after all. We've just been more careful about it. That was why the blueprints were online."

"But then Wells found out about the blueprints and stole them so he could make more," Miles explained. "This mind crime he's committing has become quite the lucrative career for many a criminal. There's an underground network of them operating all over the world."

"We never wanted the device to be used for criminal activities," Mal said. "We know that we can't put a stop to it completely, but Wells is rising up as a kingpin and may start attempting more than corporate espionage very soon. He wants all of us killed so that no one against him is trained enough on the PASIV to stop him."

"Even if you do stop him, someone else will just rise up to take his place," Brendan said skeptically. "Seems kind of pointless if you ask me."

"You think that," Eames mentioned, "but, as I'm sure you're fairly well-versed in now, once the kingpin topples, it becomes a bit of a messy free-for-all for a tic. That kind of disorganization is really all that's needed for this rapidly growing crime ring to be caught up to by each country's respective governments and regulated. The ones in it for the money or the power or whatever won't last without someone calling the shots. All that's left are the creative ones. They may not be doing good deeds with their talents, but they also aren't trying to start wars or take over. See, the best and brightest work on the underneath, slip out unseen, and go about their business with a little extra in their pockets.

"Dreaming with the PASIV, in its essence, isn't about the money, after all. It's creation, plain and simple. They may be thieves, but they are also artists. Mind crime isn't going anywhere, we know that. We're just trying to shift the direction it will take, savvy?" Eames paused to take a drink and then added,"None of that matters to you, though, now does it? You're just trying to make sure you've got an arsenal to fight them off with should they find you."

"The last thing I need is to get involved in another war," Brendan mumbled.

Eames's smile was slightly tight when he remarked, "Pardon, but I don't think you know what war even is."

Considering it was Eames, Brendan was tempted to smart off, but considering the tone he'd used, he thought it was best to instead clarify. " _Turf_ war."

"Nice to see you making friends," Brain whispered to Brendan.

"Close your head, Brain."

* * *

When dinner was done, Mal insisted she show them around the house. Neither of them were terribly interested in a tour, being worn down from the long flight, but if they were going to be staying it was probably best to know their way around.

"You've each got a room at the end of the hall here," she explained once they'd climbed the steps to the second floor. "You can decide which you want, but they're both basically the same. My bedroom is here at the other end of the hall, and Eames's is there in the middle, right across from the bathroom. Now, I know you're Americans, so it's a bit different than your typical ones, but I'm sure you'll adjust. This is the only room in the house with a bath actually in it, and there are two other toilets downstairs. Please don't use the bidet like a toilet."

One of the bedrooms overlooked the terrace so Brendan picked it, not necessarily because he gave a damn about the view but because he thought it could perhaps be useful in case he needed to escape the building. It wasn't a horrific jump down because of the part of the house built in next to it with a slightly lower roof. He could make the climb fairly easily. Brain seemed more interested in the room where he could pull down the shades and close the curtains and cocoon himself in his separate world anyway.

"There are extra blankets if you need them. We keep it fairly warm, but the chill outside is rather bad right now. You're responsible for cleaning up after yourself. In the morning we'll start explaining the ins and outs of the PASIV device and put it into practice, but for the rest of the evening you're free to do as you will."

"Thanks," Brendan mumbled and didn't have time to move away again before Mal placed her warm palm on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry you got involved in all of this," she said gently. "I know you don't trust any of us yet, but I promise you that we mean you no harm."

"So, where do Miles and Cobb sleep?" Brendan asked rather than acknowledge her statement.

"Papa sleeps at home, and Dom has an apartment close to the University. It will just be the four of us living here during the night," she explained, letting Brendan's icy response slide right off of her shoulders. "Oh, and don't worry. There are locks on the doors, so I promise that Mr. Eames won't antagonize you while you're trying to rest."

"He seems like the type that could pick a lock."

"Well, I'll make sure that he behaves, I promise. I know Eames can be a bit of a nuisance sometimes, but I guarantee you'll find no one who is better at what he does. Papa says he's a regular prodigy."

Brendan set his bags down inside the room, adjusted his glasses. "I'll judge that for myself tomorrow."

The room itself was lovely, though as plain as any other guest room might be. There was a watercolor painting hanging above the admittedly comfortable bed, a trunk at the end of the bed for storage. There was a dresser as well with a mirror hung behind it, and both an alarm clock and a lamp on each bedside table. The duvet was a cool gray, the sheets underneath a darker shade of such, and they were soft and recently washed. Brendan liked it. He'd never been one for flashiness.

As Brendan started unpacking his things, he turned to see Brain hovering just outside the doorway, watching. "Hey, um… earlier when… when they were talking about the soldiers who didn't know they were awake…"

"If you're asking whether I'm okay or not, the answer is that I'm fine," Brendan said, picking up a few shirts and stuffing them into a drawer.

"I'm asking if you know whether or not you're awake."

Brendan paused, wet his lips, and said, "I do… It just takes a minute to be sure sometimes. The dreams really do feel real when you're in them."

"What if it gets harder to keep track?"

"I don't… Look, for now I'm all right… I won't let myself get all goofy and pull the Dutch act, all right? All of these plugs here have been using the device and they seem like they got their heads about them more or less. I won't… I won't get lost."

Brain sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "It's not my business what you do, Brendan. You're going to do this whether I think it's a good idea or not because you're thick as what all, and we both know that. I'm just going to say right now that you shouldn't make promises you aren't sure you can keep. If you're saying that you won't get lost down in all that mess then you'd better mean it. I already told you that I don't want your body on my name, you got that?"

"Brain, I'll be fine," Brendan assured softly. "I've been through worse scrapes than this and come out all right."

"People died during those scrapes, Brendan. I just want to make sure it's not you."

"It won't be me."

"Do you swear?"

"I swear. I've got you to op for me after all. I haven't got anything to worry about."

"I think you put way too much faith in my abilities."

"Not faith," Brendan said, mirroring Mal's sentiment from before. "I'm choosing my best options."

Brain grinned, leaning forward a little. "I wouldn't put my trust in your picks, Brendan. I think it's a well-deserved rumor back in San Clemente that anyone who associates with you is a bit on the insane side. Even if we are capable of giving you good advice, it's not as if you're going to stick to it, you know? That's not how you play the game. It's just who you are but it makes you pretty dangerous."

"It hasn't killed me yet."

"That doesn't mean it won't."

"Those are the chances we take."

Brain smirked. "Chances, my ass. Don't even pretend like any of this was left up to fate and coincidence. You know better than anyone that there's always a tale, always a reason behind whatever happens. Anyone who doesn't think so is a sap."

"See, that's why you're the best option. You get how it works," Brendan said, resuming his unpacking.

"I said I wouldn't put my trust in your picks, but I never said they were bad ones," Brain reminded. "You absolutely promise that you'll be okay?"

"Nothing has stopped me yet, so I doubt this will."

"Brendan… you're not invincible, you know."

Brendan looked up to respond to that but found Brain was already retreating off to his room. Brendan didn't get the chance to tell him that this as something he was well aware of. In fact, it was something that absolutely terrified him, being as un-invincible as he actually was.

He couldn't even keep himself out of Laura's web when he'd known she was dangerous from the get go.

He couldn't even save Emily when he'd known she needed help.

No, he was entirely breakable. He knew because he'd already been broken.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Brendan awoke to the sound of someone rapping on his bedroom door. He grunted softly, burying his face against the pillow in an attempt to will away the sound and give himself a little more time to sleep, but a minute later he was awake enough to know that wasn't going to happen.

He sat up, fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, and trudged to the door to open it.

Eames, relaxed and smiling as always, greeted him with, "Ah, don't worry, darling. You'll be getting plenty of sleep today."

"Darling?" Brendan scoffed and quite literally cringed when Eames tousled his hair, laughing.

"Come down and eat," Eames said. "Your mate Sam is already with the living."

Brendan huffed, rubbing his own fingers through his hair. "I'll be down in a minute. Let me get dressed."

"Afraid you might have to cut and run?" Eames asked, corners of his mouth twitching.

"You never know," he replied, shutting the door on him. He briefly considered throwing himself back into bed, but he hadn't come to Paris for a vacation so he didn't intend to spend his time snoozing for any other reason than training himself on the PASIV. If he slowed down now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get up again, so he threw on a pair of jeans and a charcoal-colored thermal shirt. He slid an old flannel on over it to keep himself warm but left it unbuttoned for the time being, then put on his socks, slipped his feet into his shoes, and turned up the cuffs on his jeans. He didn't bother to brush his hair.

When he came downstairs he found that Eames, Mal, and Brain were all gathered around the kitchen island where a small breakfast buffet had been set up. A quick peek towards the living room revealed that the PASIV was set up on the coffee table.

"This is you dressed? You look the same. I don't see why you bothered."

Brendan turned to glare at Eames and found himself being handed a plate of syrup-soaked waffles. "What's wrong with my rags?" Brendan asked, brow furrowed.

"Well, that is what they are. Rags," Eames chuckled, taking a seat at the table, "or perhaps you're channeling Kurt Cobain?"

Brendan sat down too, sneering a bit. "What difference does it make how they look? They keep me warm." He looked Eames up and down. "Besides, the lapel on your shirt went out of style in the seventies, and I'm not sure if that pattern was ever acceptable."

"I thought it didn't matter what the clothes looked like."

Brain appeared at Brendan's side, setting a cup of java down next to his plate. Brendan never did have his wits about him without a cup of coffee in his system, especially if he was under a lot of stress. During exam times, he and Emily had met up before class and shared a thermos of it at the back of the school by the portables. He remembered how her delicate mouth had pressed against the lip of the top, sipping the warm liquid slowly, grimacing a little at the end because Brendan drank his coffee black, but always ending with a smile. He could still picture the stain of her lip gloss around the rim.

"Hey," Brain snapped his fingers in front of Brendan's face, jerking him out of his daze. "Drink. Drink the coffee. Wake up."

"Is he your mate or your wife?" Eames snorted.

Brendan took a long sip of the coffee, set it down, started cutting into the waffles on his plate. "I trust him," was all he said in response.

Once Brendan had some food and caffeine in his system, he was able to fully focus again. Mal wandered by him as she went to deposit her plate in the sink for washing, ruffling his hair as she passed. "You're not much of a morning person, are you, Arthur?"

"I don't handle jet lag well," Brendan shrugged.

"Sam seems to be doing all right," Eames said, nodding towards Brain.

"Sam doesn't sleep," Brendan replied.

"My brain doesn't shut down very easily," Brain supplied sheepishly, not seeming to realize that the idea was much less intimidating with the explanation. Intimidation didn't suit him anyway, Brendan supposed.

"So you're the brains of the operation, and he's the brawn, eh? Wouldn't exactly be my first pick in a brawl, if I'm being honest," Eames said, looking Brendan up and down.

"You haven't seen him throw a punch," Brain said. "He can take a hit too. He's like iron when he's determined. Nothing can keep him down."

Brendan expected some sort of jab at his expense, but surprisingly enough Eames looked entirely impressed.

"Oh, I would hate to think anyone would be bashing that handsome face anymore," Mal tutted, coming by to top off Brendan's coffee cup.

"Handsome?" Brendan questioned skeptically as he lifted the mug back to his lips. He hoped the slightly pink tint to his cheeks wasn't noticeable.

"Well, of course," Mal said lightly, "I know you've got a lovely face under all that hair and all those bruises. It's a shame any harm has already come to it."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere," Brendan mumbled.

Brendan was saved from further awkwardness when the front door opened, the chill bringing in a very eager-looking Dominic Cobb and a less eager but still as pleasant Miles. "Sorry we're late," Miles said, kissing Mal's cheek, flushed from the cold morning air.

"Oh, non, we're still having breakfast."

Cobb made a bee line to the PASIV device, crouching down in front of it with his brow furrowed in concentration. "So, who is going under?" he asked. "I need to know how to calibrate this thing."

"Just you and me and him," Eames said, "for now. You're building and I'll be digging around."

" _Digging around_?" Brendan brows met in the middle of his forehead, expression carefully cautious.

"I'm not going to be looking for any major secrets, don't worry," Eames responded, holding his hands up in a placating manner. "It's merely to see what your subconscious defenses will do, see how powerful they are. We just need to know what to expect if we're going down into your mind for whatever reason, how you handle mazes, how vividly you remember your dreams, if you can tell that you're dreaming when you're down below. We're not extractors. We aren't in the business of stealing secrets, and whatever's in your head probably isn't of much value to us anyway so don't get your knickers in a twist."

Brendan was still entirely apprehensive to have any of them rooting around for information in his brain, even if what Eames had said was true. He really didn't have anything that could be useful to them. All of the names and places regarding the Pin's dope ring were old news now, and they likely knew more about Well's goons than Brendan did. That didn't mean, however, that they wouldn't be searching for something to use against him at a later date if needed. He knew he'd have to keep his guard up. Eames seemed like he could be tricky, and Brendan was already well aware of a few of the tricks that could be played in the dream world.

"He'll need a totem, won't he?" Cobb asked, turning to look at Mal as if she had every answer he could ever want. The amount of idolization and punch-drunk puppy love rolling off of him made Brendan want to roll his eyes.

"A totem?" Brain asked. "Like a symbol?"

"Not exactly," Cobb said, brightening. "Mal came up with an elegant solution to keep track of reality. A totem. It's something unique to the dreamer that helps them distinguish dreams from the real world because it behaves differently in the dream world."

"Do you have an example?" Brain queried. He didn't sound like he really believed it. Brendan was already trying to think of what he could use.

"We can't exactly tell you how ours work," Mal explained, smiling sheepishly. Brendan thought she really shouldn't look so radiant while sheepish. "It would completely undermine their purpose. If others were to know how they worked, if we were in their dream, they could manipulate our totems to make us believe we're in reality."

"It needs to be something small that you can carry around with you," Cobb continued, "but it can't be something typical, something other people have gotten their mitts on. As long as we're not going too deeply into the subconscious or staying under for long periods of time, he should be fine, but it's probably best to get one sooner rather than later."

Brendan got up from the table, leaving his half-eaten breakfast. "I'll get right on that, but what do we do first?"

* * *

For the rest of the morning, Brendan and Brain sat in on a lesson about the PASIV device where Miles explained all of its ins and outs. The sheer amount of information made Brendan's eyes cross a little, but Brain soaked it up like a sponge just like he always did. Brain's skepticism about the whole thing was fading away, transforming into excitement, and Brendan had a feeling it was only a matter of time before Brain started giving Miles suggestions for modifications to be made.

After all the chatter, they finally got to the meat of it, settling into chairs and on couches to go under. Brendan was about to slip the needle into his arm when he found Eames crouching in front of him to do it instead. "Don't want you to blow a vein," Eames said, effortlessly sliding the cannula in and taping it down.

"I can do it myself," Brendan complained.

"Better to be safe than sorry, yeah?"

Brendan sneered at him but sat back in the lounge chair that had been pulled into the living room, sighing as he closed his eyes. "Sam, I'm counting on you."

Brain nodded, even though Brendan couldn't see it and took a seat in one of the unoccupied chairs to keep his eyes on everyone. It was highly unlikely that there'd be any maiming taking place, but Eames was right about being safe rather than sorry.

"Everyone all settled in?" Mal asked, letting her fingertips linger over the button on the PASIV device. Once she got the signal from everyone, she said, "Sweet dreams," and depressed the plunger.

The PASIV hissed, grogginess overwhelmed Brendan, and he slipped into sleep.

* * *

Paris was lit up like Christmas. Brendan moved his way through the crowds of people, all of them vaguely familiar and quickly forgotten. He couldn't quite remember where he was heading or why, but he knew it had something to do with…

…with…

 _Oh_.

It only took him a moment before he remembered that he was dreaming. This version of Paris, glittering with lights and dizzy with celebration had been constructed by Cobb to distract him. This was his first lesson.

Brendan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, doing his best to keep calm. He needed to find Eames first, make sure he wasn't rummaging around in his thoughts. He needed to prove to him that he could keep himself protected from anyone else who might later try. There were certain things he certainly didn't want Eames or anyone to find… and he didn't want anyone to be finding them either.

It was hard to stay focused with the hoopla going on all around him which Brendan figured was sort of the point, but it agitated him all the same. He'd never been the kind of guy who got involved in crowds like these. He tended to be the type to keep a low profile and stay in the background of a scene in order to find out the real story. He wasn't entirely opposed to making his presence known if it served his purpose, but large crowds of people made him uncomfortable, even if they'd been formed out of his subconscious. Too many things could go wrong with enough different heads.

He tried to focus instead on figuring out the location of his secrets. It wasn't hard to discern that they'd be locked up somewhere safe—like a bank vault. He figured he might as well try there first. He asked passers-by projections where the bank was located, since his subconscious knew its way around better than his conscious mind did, and it only took him about fifteen minutes before he made it there. He didn't see Eames around, so he thought that perhaps he hadn't arrived yet.

He approached the main teller, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I want to get into my safety deposit box," he said. "Brendan Frye?"

The teller- a blonde, smiley, Stepford-wifey kind of woman nodded and said, "Right this way, sir." Brendan followed her through the extensive bank, down inexplicably winding corridors and through doorways, until they reached the wall of safety deposit boxes. Had it been reality, Brendan would have been a bit alarmed by the presence of the vault right there in the middle for anyone to sift through, but he was pretty sure Cobb had built it that way on purpose. Eames knew the layout of the maze, and this made it easy to access. Brendan would just wait here for Eames and take him out when he arrived.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?" the teller asked.

"No, I'll be fine on my own, thanks."

"Do you know your code, sir?"

Brendan paused from where he was walking towards the boxes, finding that instead of keyholes, there were keypads for punching in a number pass code. Since it was his own subconscious, he was fairly sure that he could punch in whatever number he fancied and it would work. He looked back towards the teller and nodded. "I can handle it from here."

She nodded and continued to stand right where she was. Brendan blinked, a little annoyed that she hadn't gotten the hint and scrammed. "Heel it now," he said, waving a hand in her direction.

"Sir, I'm required to stay here."

That didn't make any sense because she was supposed to be a part of his subconscious. She should have been following his demands, shouldn't she? He didn't have actual control over these projections of people, he didn't think, but he wouldn't have expected one of them to act so defiant against his wishes. All he had to do was think of the set of rules they should be following in his head and that should have been enough.

That made it apparent pretty quickly that something else was possibly going on. He couldn't help but think of how that scrawny kid who had helped kidnap him back in San Clemente, Charlie Figaro, had taken on the form of the Pin in his dream, not only wearing his face but adopting his voice, his mannerisms. A forger, he'd called himself… and Mal had said that Eames was particularly gifted.

"I'm not going to open it," Brendan informed, leaning against the wall of boxes, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm going to stand here and make sure that you don't."

The teller's forced-pleasant smile warmed a little with a familiar delight. "Do you find that wise? What are you hiding, Mr. Frye?"

"Nothing all that important," Brendan said lightly. "All the same, doesn't mean it won't be important later, so I can't have you getting your grubby little mitts on it and using it to blackmail me or frame me or do whatever it is you might when your back is against the wall and you need a fall guy."

"I wouldn't use you as a fall guy," the teller responded, chuckling as her heels clacked against the floor. She approached Brendan with the confidence of a predator facing down its prey, arms akimbo and eyes bright. "You're far too smart to be a fall guy, and if there was anyone I'd sell down the river it would probably be Cobb. He's too optimistic. He doesn't understand how dire some consequences can be and is much more likely to be a reason why my back is against a wall.

"You however," she continued, her voice distinctly more English than it had been, "are smart. I can see you calculating things even right now. You're smart, you're crafty, and probably a little bit barmy as well. Oh, no, it wouldn't do to cross you. It's hard to believe you're just a sprog with eyes like that."

"Sprog?" Brendan asked flatly, one corner of his mouth curved upwards.

"You're a child," she corrected, placing a hand on his chest. Brendan hadn't realized until then how close he'd allowed her to get to him. His gaze narrowed. "Yes, yes, I know that look. I'm still a bit young myself, but you've still got spots. In your country they probably don't even let you drink yet."

Brendan took hold of her wrist and pulled her hand back away from his chest. "I'm not here to play games so why don't you take your real form and tell me why you're bumping gums with me."

Suddenly Brendan was eye to eye with Eames rather than looking down at the female teller. "Stalling for time," Eames informed him.

"Stalling…" Brendan said slowly, and it all clicked into place. "Cobb's already in the vault."

"You're pretty good at this, darling, I'll give you that," Eames said, moving away from Brendan exactly one step and slipping his hands into his pockets. "However, you didn't think to put pass codes on anything until you were standing in front of them. You should have had that idea prepared as soon as you went under. Of course Cobb knew where the vault was because he built the maze. You're going to have to be quicker than that, Mr. Frye."

The vault door groaned as it swung open, almost as if on cue. The whole room rumbled with it, or at least that was what Brendan thought at first, but then Cobb was staggering out sopping wet and with a bullet in his gut. Clearly this wasn't part of the plan.

"What in the bloody hell—" Eames started, confused but remarkably calm considering one of his colleagues was bleeding to death in front of him. "How did you cock up in a bank vault?"

"It's not how I built it," Cobb coughed, blood on his lips.

Brendan took the moment where they both were distracted to glance towards the vault. Just beyond it he could see the runoff tunnel in the early gray light.

"Not how you built it? What the fuck happened then?"

"There's… there's projections in the vault, no—in the place beyond the vault. One came after me. She… f-fucking shot me!"

A piece of plaster fell from the ceiling. Brendan realized that the world Cobb had built for his subconscious to occupy was starting to crumble. Over the sounds of it, he could still hear the first straining notes of music. " _Non, rien de rien_ …"

"How is that even remotely possible?" Eames snorted, skeptical. "You bollocksed something up, didn't you?"

"I didn't!" Cobb tried to shout but was in too much pain to really manage it, slumping against Eames with his hand pressed over the wound. "You think I did this to myself?"

"He didn't," Brendan found himself saying before he could stop himself.

Out of the vault came Emily, her worn-down brown heels still splattered with mud and water. Her straw-colored hair was dripping and hanging in her face, and her white coat had been marred with dirt. The hand below a wrist of plastic blue bracelets was holding a pistol, one that looked remarkably similar if not identical to the one Tug had used to shoot her and later Dode in that exact tunnel. Brendan had held that same gun when the war broke out, when Tug was beating the life out of the Pin, and the Pin was screaming for his help.

For several seconds, the entire room was silent as all eyes fell on Emily. She smiled, her expression soft and sweet and everything Brendan had ever loved about her, aimed the gun, and fired a bullet directly into Brendan's forehead with a blast of blood, skull, and brain matter scattering from the back of his skull.

He didn't even feel himself hit the ground.


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

Brendan jolted into wakefulness, diving forward from his chair as his hands flew to the back of his head in a panicked attempt to keep his skull together. Even when it registered that the gunshot hadn't happened in reality, his ears were still ringing with it and with the ringing came the most agonizing pain, as if the bullet was still ripping through his brain matter and splintering his skull into fragments. He felt like he was going to vomit, vision swimming as a hand fell on top of his wrist.

"Hey, hey," a gentle, feminine voice said. "Hey, you're all right. You're okay. Listen to my voice."

Brendan turned to look at Mal, focusing on her eyes as the pain started to recede, agonizingly slow. His breath was shaky, as if he'd been running for miles.

"It's all right," she said, voice soft and soothing. "You're all right. It was only a dream."

When he finally calmed down, she ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off of his sweat-dotted forehead.

Eames and Cobb had awoken moments after Brendan, albeit much more quietly than Brendan had since they were used to these sorts of things. Brendan could feel their eyes on him, and he felt the urge to hunker down and try to disappear.

Mal kept carding her fingers through his hair, bringing to mind a memory of Laura doing the same when the dam broke on his tears.

" _I'm sorry, Brendan. I'm so sorry."_

He couldn't help but wonder how she could dare to say something like that when she'd been the cause. How could she say she was sorry when she had put Emily in front of the gun? How could she have held him and let him kiss every breath off of her lips?

He squeezed his eyes shut against the ache in his head and the similar one in his chest.

"Hey, mate, what the hell was that all about?" Eames asked. "Why did your projection kill you? That's not how it's supposed to work."

"My subconscious isn't a friendly place," Brendan mumbled, slumping over the arm of the chair, letting Mal continue her gentle scalp massage.

"Yeah, but it's supposed to attack the intruders, not you," Cobb mentioned, rubbing the spot where he'd been shot in the dream, only a distant phantom pain.

"Well, at least it attacked you first," Eames said lightly.

"It?" Brain questioned.

"One of his projections. It came after us with a bloody pistol. It shot Cobb and then blew your little mate's brains out—"

"Stop calling her 'it'," Brendan growled before he could stop himself.

All eyes were on Brendan then, but he refused to look up at them. He refused to acknowledge what he'd just said.

It was too bad that Eames was going to acknowledge it anyway. "You… You _are_ aware that projections aren't real people, right? They're just parts of your subconscious. They don't have real genders or… They're _fantasy_."

Brendan continued to stare at the floor, fists clenched.

"Well," Mal interjected when the silence had gotten too heavy, "it is difficult to come to terms with that at first. If your subconscious is detailed enough, it's nearly impossible to tell the difference. It takes some getting used to. Don't fret over it, okay?"

Brendan didn't lift his head, but he did look up at her over the rim of his glasses, feeling so very small. He kept telling himself not to let her in, that she would be Laura all over again, but it was getting harder and harder to listen to himself.

"Fine, fine, that's all well and good," Eames said, "but it still doesn't explain why it— _she_ sent a bullet whizzing through his bloody skull. What kind of subconscious sabotages itself like that?"

"Maybe one that really doesn't want people to find anything," Cobb said, getting out of his chair and rolling his shoulders. "You have to admit, it's kind of a fail-safe method."

"It's not all that useful if we're getting shot out of the dreams where we're supposed to be finding things in though."

Brendan finally turned to look at them, eyes narrow and suspicious. "That's not what we're here for. I thought you said you didn't have any interest in stealing ideas."

"We don't know what we might be forced to do," Eames replied, and all glee had left his face. His smile was tight, sarcastic, his eyes absolutely challenging Brendan to cross him. "We're treading quite lightly because they're coming after us. Your subconscious going out of its way to kill not just us but you as well isn't ideal conditions, especially if your defense mechanisms are strong enough to burst through someone else's walls."

"Well, I'm not a part of your _team_ ," Brendan spat, jumping to his feet. "What difference does it make? As far as I'm concerned it doesn't matter if my subconscious rubs you out. Seems to me like it's good news. They won't be able to get anything out of me, no matter what they try."

"You think because a little blonde girl shows up with a shotgun at random and blows you away they won't be able to find anything?" Eames argued standing as well. His voice was calm, frank, and biting in a subtly devastating way. "These people are professionals. They'll manage it. You're not properly militarized, especially if your own subconscious comes after you. I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, but you need to get your shite together if you expect to walk away from this battle alive, no matter whose side you're on or if you're even on a side."

Brendan worked his jaw, staring down Eames with the same amount of intensity he was getting back. Cobb looked uncomfortably between the two of them and then turned to Mal for help.

Miles stepped in instead. "Boys," he said, "There's no purpose in butting heads over this."

"You weren't even the one who got shot," Cobb mumbled.

"We'll work on properly militarizing Arthur's subconscious and do what we can to fix the other issues if possible. Eames, simmer down. Arthur, try to be a little more open to our help. It will make things easier."

"Fine," Eames mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his mouth, fidgeting as he moved away from the group and the conversation. "I knew he was barking mad. I knew he was."

Brendan stayed silent but nodded. He could feel Brain's eyes boring into him. Through his peripheral vision he could see the set of his jaw and the nervous twitching of his fingers. Brain knew. It was why Brendan couldn't look at him directly.

"Well," Mal exhaled, "let's take fifteen minutes and reconvene, shall we? Get our wits about us and let the air clear."

Brendan took that as his cue to slip upstairs and back into his room. He needed to be alone for a few minutes.

Of course, Brain wasn't going to let him. Within three minutes, he was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Little blonde girl?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Brendan, who had taken a seat on the bed, rubbed his hands over his face. "Come inside. Close the door. If we're going to jaw about this, then I don't want anyone getting the wire right now."

Brain did shut the door, but as he approached he mentioned, "Maybe they _should_ know. I mean, come on, Brendan… Clearly something is going on here."

"I'll rein it in," Brendan sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Will you? You don't even know how this stuff works. Every single time you've gone under on that device, this projection of Emily has offed you. You didn't think I'd figure that out? You didn't think they would?"

"It'll be _fine_ , all right?" Brendan interrupted him before he could say more. "It's not like she's going to actually kill me."

Brain sighed, fingers twitching, aching to handle something that he could work his brain around like a Rubik's cube. "I'm not concerned about the what, Brendan. I'm concerned about the _why_. Why is this projection coming after you? I thought this was settled."

"It is. I don't know why."

"Yes, you do. Come on, Brendan, I'm not stupid. You might be able to pull that kind of cryptic shit on someone else, but I know you. Spill it."

After a minute of silence from Brendan, Brain exhaled through his nose. "Okay, fine. You don't have to tell me. I know how you are about your personal life, but don't forget that you promised me just last night that you wouldn't let yourself get lost. You promised me that you'd be okay, and if you go back on that promise, I don't know if I'll be able to co-op with you again, you understand?"

"I understand," Brendan said softly. "I'll be all right."

"Good," Brain sighed, crossing his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels. He hesitated for several seconds, and Brendan could feel him debating whether or not to ask the question on his mind. After much debate, he seemed to finally choose to attempt it.

"Is this about what Laura whispered to you?"

Brendan's eyes fell closed for just a moment as the memory replayed in his mind.

" _Motherfucker."_

"No," he said firmly.

Brain shrugged and opened the door again. "They'll want you back down there in less than ten."

"I'll be there."

* * *

Progress was painfully slow.

There were a few times they managed to go under without being viciously murdered by Emily, but a good majority of them resulted in them being found and bludgeoned, shot, or drowned. The only way to keep her at bay was the increasingly complicated mazes Cobb built to confuse the projections. It lead to a lot of standing around while Cobb drew out his designs and introduced them to Eames, and then Mal when Eames apparently grew too bored of being killed, and then Miles when he decided to join them in their quest to properly militarize Brendan's chaotic subconscious.

Mal was making a valiant effort to be reassuring but when she started asking questions about his personal life in the attempt to understand just who this blonde girl was, he instantly shut her down, escaping into the chilly afternoon air in the front garden.

Eames was out there, smoking a cigarette. Mal had shooed him outside so as not to get the scent of the smoke on her furniture. He seemed to have gotten over his distaste towards Brendan's behavior, at least as far as Brendan could tell, but it was also entirely possible that he'd just set it aside for later. Eames was a hard man to read.

"Running so soon?" Eames queried as Brendan hunkered into his jacket. Rain had moved in during the night and washed away most of the snow.

"Not going anywhere," Brendan said. "Just needed some air."

Eames gave a curt nod and looked back out towards the street, smoke drifting from between his plush lips. He had a dusting of stubble already growing on his face which somehow made him look instantly older. Brendan didn't like how he felt so young and inexperienced standing next to him. He wasn't sure if it was the fact that Eames had been in actual combat or if it was because he'd experienced much more life through the extension of dreamtime, but his eyes were so much older than the rest of him. The worst part was just how aware of it Eames was, having called him a child to his face with a smile of confidence.

"So," Eames said after a beat, "this dishy blonde of yours that's got it out for you—ex-girlfriend, yeah?"

Brendan glanced at Eames and then down at his feet. "She's someone I used to eat lunch with," he said vaguely.

"Ah, lunch. Very serious, lunch is."

Brendan glared at Eames. "Don't fucking patronize me."

Eames grinned so widely that Brendan momentarily considered knocking his teeth out. "All I'm saying is that she's clearly some kind of manifestation over something you're not dealing with. Maybe it would be good to try and find out what that is, yeah?"

He took a long drag on the cigarette and then offered it to Brendan. Brendan stared at the pale blue arrow on the cigarette paper and shook his head. "I don't smoke."

"Suit yourself," Eames said, puffing on it again. "You know… you remind me a bit of a mate of mine I knew in Her Majesty's."

"Oh? Did you hate him too?"

"I would have to know you a bit better before I could hate you. I barely know you, so I don't really have much of an opinion of you. Still, you do remind me of this bloke, see? He was in the same unit as me. Scrappy and thin but with sharp eyes. He didn't really look like much, but he was tough as nails. I don't know if he was brave or just bloody crazy but he did some incredible things when we were together."

"Yeah?" Brendan said with a slight smirk.

"He was a good man," Eames said, turning to look at Brendan.

"Was?"

Eames nodded, dropping his cigarette butt to the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. "Jury is still out on you though," he said lightly. "I guess we shall see, yeah?"

Brendan wet his lips, watching a car go by. He looked over his shoulder as Eames started to head inside and said, "Why'd you tell me that?"

Eames shrugged, not looking back at him. "You need to stop thinking that we're all out to get you. We really are trying to help you. I mean, if you think about it, there's really no advantage for us to have you here besides getting that PASIV back, so… Maybe it's time you stopped treating us like we're the enemy. Just a thought."

Eames went back inside, leaving Brendan staring after him.

It was oddly kind of Eames and probably the most genuine and warm he'd been since they met, but Brendan wasn't going to accept it so easily. Eames was a forger which meant he was one hell of an actor, and Brendan had already suffered over some well-timed words and pretend affection. He made that mistake with Laura, but he wasn't going to let himself be won over this time.

Brendan breathed into his hands and rubbed them together to create warmth, shifted from foot to foot, and then went back inside.

There was still work to be done.

* * *

Brendan had expected to drop into bed that night and sleep almost instantly, but the fact that he'd been sleeping all day, albeit chemically induced, left him with a rather terrible case of insomnia. He tossed and turned for a good hour and a half before deciding to just get up. He knew Brain would be awake besides, and maybe if he got his friend going on a long enough tangent about something, it would lull him to sleep.

Brain looked up from his computer screen when Brendan entered, two rectangles of light reflecting off of the lenses of his glasses. "Can't sleep?"

"Afraid not," Brendan sighed. "What have you got your specs on?"

"Just trying to do my part," Brain said, moving over on the bed to make room for Brendan to sit. "I've been studying the PASIV some more, though I can't necessarily make heads or tails of it just yet. I've been looking more at the drug, actually, the Somnacin. It's a really interesting chemical concoction, and it can be mixed differently depending on what you might need in the dream. She said there are chemists all over the world who make the stuff. Mal thinks maybe if they change the mixture of it a little bit, it might help keep your projection of Emily at bay until they can militarize your subconscious to fight her off if need be."

"My subconscious would be fighting itself?"

"Not exactly," Brain said, adjusting his glasses. "See, apparently Em isn't like your normal projections. No one knows exactly _what_ she is, honestly, but your projections are kind of like white blood cells. Maybe with the right ingredients, the Somnacin can convince your subconscious that she's the intruder, the uh, the virus, if you will, and will stop her from showing up and killing you and everyone else."

Brendan had a feeling that was a long shot. Everyone seemed to be grasping at straws for a solution since no one knew quite what they were dealing with. He didn't mention it, figuring Brain already knew.

"It's a little weird though, don't you think?" Brain mentioned, tapping away at his keyboard. "Emily was never violent. I wonder why she's so off the track in your head. As far as I know she never had it out for you, not like that, but hey, maybe I'm wrong. I never have been able to understand people."

Brendan shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. "Do me a favor."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Do some research on our house guests. I know Mal and Miles don't have much to go on, but do a search on Dominic Cobb and on Eames too. See if something comes up."

"I don't know Eames's real name. I doubt I'll find anything."

"Look it up anyway. As far as we know it is his real name and he lied about lying about it. I can't tell with that guy. Either way, even if it doesn't turn anything up, I'll have my bases covered."

"Okay, but… I think they're with us, Brendan. I really do."

"That's what you said about Laura," he reminded.

Brain sighed. "Yeah, yeah, you've made your point. I'll see what I can see, and if I get any hints on his real name, I'll dig some more. Since he was in the military, I figure he has some dog tags or something, so if you find them, send them my way."

"I'll see what I can do."

Brendan stretched out on the available space of the bed, folding his hands behind his head. "Anything else I should know?"

Brain typed for a minute more before hesitantly saying, "I don't know if I should tell you."

"Spill."

Brain ran a hand over his hair and said, "I started looking into Wells criminal ring, these guys who work in the dreamshare. I found out who was supplying their stash of Somnacin."

"It was the Pin," Brendan said, brow furrowing, "wasn't it?"

"Well, yeah, the Pin got the supplies, but someone had to bring it to Wells. It wasn't exactly wise for these guys to be moving about. They've got their names on wanted lists all over. It was easier for someone less suspicious to bring them their stash, so—"

"Laura."

"Ah… yeah. Yeah, you hit the nail on the head."

Brendan suppressed a groan. "So she was involved with them before the war broke out. It makes sense, I guess. She was one of the Pin's top suppliers."

"Yeah, but… well, it's only a hunch. I don't have any evidence of this, but it's possible she might still be on the underneath. These are the kind of people who have connections and ways to make it across the globe undetected. It's possible is all I'm saying."

"She's probably not stateside if she's under their thumb, so that means it's possible that she's here, and if she catches wind that we're here… I don't know. It's not good."

"Well, I'll see if I can find her first. She's probably got a pseudo by now, but if anyone can find her, it'll be me. The good news is that she's probably lying low for the moment, so she likely isn't a threat."

Brendan sat up, eyes meeting Brain's in a firm glare. "Laura Dannon is _always_ a threat."

Brain swallowed, a little alarmed. "If you say so."

Brendan forced himself to calm down. It wouldn't do either of them any good to be so tense. "It'd be best if we knew where she was. I'd rather move around her than face her at this point. She already knows who we are and probably more than these goons who are after us do. I can't guarantee that if she found us first they wouldn't come shooting. I seriously doubt she'd be very amicable considering I'm the reason she's on the run in the first place. It's best just to play it cool."

"I'll do my best, Brendan. I can't make any promises, but I'm pretty good at this stuff. Laura's not the kind of girl to hide her face—she's too much of a looker for that. She's bound to show up on some security cameras somewhere. Besides, it's not like I've got anything better to do for the moment."

"Do you want me to make coffee?" Brendan asked.

Brain smirked.

Brendan threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. "I'll be back in a few minutes then."

As he exited Brain's room, he nearly ran straight into Eames who was coming out of the bathroom.

"Pardon," Eames said casually, hands momentarily settling on Brendan's slim shoulders. "Didn't know anyone else was up."

Brendan glanced towards the bathroom and then back towards Brain's room, trying to figure out if anything they had been talking about could have been heard.

"Don't worry about it," Brendan said slowly, scanning Eames with his eyes to see if he had a wire or a listening device on his person. It didn't seem so, considering he was dressed in only his undershirt and pajama bottoms.

Eames nodded, offering a slightly awkward smile and excused himself back to his bedroom.

When Brain mentioned it took Brendan quite a while to return with the coffee, he decided not to say anything about his thorough search of the bathroom. It hadn't turned up anything anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE**

Brendan drifted off around four in the morning, curled up on one side of Brain's bed after having a few lessons on researching. Brain had insisted Brendan learn how to do it on his own so next time he wouldn't have to get involved, and it wasn't like he could really be blamed for feeling that way. Still, it was slow and complicated and boring, and there were long stretches where Brain would just stop to study the information he was gathering in the meantime in case he'd found something to report back to Brendan. He didn't even notice he'd fallen asleep until a hand was gently shoving his shoulder.

"Hey, Brendan," Brain whispered. "Come on, it's morning. They probably want to work some more."

Brendan grunted to let him know he was awake, scrubbing his hands over his face. Someone, probably Brain, had removed his glasses for him and pulled the covers over him during the night.

"Did you find anything?" Brendan slurred, voice still laced with sleep. He yawned and sniffed and blinked a few times to try and get his wits about him.

"Nothing useful. Cobb's clean. He's just your typical University student. The worst thing he has on his record is a ticket for reckless driving back in high school. He gets all A's and B's. Just average."

"And Eames?"

"Fake name. Can I interest you in a lounge chair or an ottoman?"

Brendan threw the covers back, rolling his eyes. "Keep your specs on."

"Don't I always?"

Brendan slipped downstairs to find that breakfast had already commenced. He wasn't particularly hungry anyway (and Brain apparently hadn't been either), so he just poured himself a cup of coffee and watched Mal and Cobb dream together in the living room while Miles oversaw them, taking notes.

"What's going on?" Brendan asked when Eames approached, trying to feign only mild interest as he sipped at his java.

"Testing a different mixture of Somnacin," Eames informed. "They're hoping this one will help make it easier to train your subconscious. They just tweaked it slightly, so nothing to be overly concerned about."

Brendan hummed, shrugging one shoulder. "Not concerned. Sam already put me wise."

"Ah, yes. The brains of your outfit," Eames nodded, leaning against the counter. "You shared his bed last night, yeah? I noticed you coming out of his room."

" _Shared_ isn't exactly how I would put it," Brendan said. "I fell asleep in his bed, but he didn't. He wouldn't really care if his room didn't even have a bed."

"Ah, of course, of course," Eames said, mock serious. Brendan could tell from the pitch of his voice that he wasn't at all convinced.

"Well, what did you think we were doing?" Brendan asked suspiciously, gripping the handle of his coffee cup a little tighter. His brain was spinning with theories about Eames listening in on their conversations. He wondered if Eames was spying on the two of them the night before, escaping into the bathroom when he found out Brendan was leaving the room. He just _knew_ he had reason to be suspicious of Eames—

Eames's face cracked into a devious smile, and Brendan was almost positive his suspicions were confirmed until Eames said, "Well, when me and another bloke are alone in a bed together I know what I'm doing, and it certainly isn't sleeping. You know, no one is going to hold it against you if you're shagging. Cobb and Mal have shagged a few times, though I do think their relationship is a little more serious than they're letting on."

Brendan's brow furrowed, and then he managed to stammer, "I… wait—w-what?"

Eames tousled Brendan's hair. "Don't be so coy."

"I—no, I'm not, I… no. We don't do that, we—Brain's just my friend. That's all, that's it. That's—no!"

"You really need to learn to take a joke, mate," Eames snorted. "Though I suppose you did just prove you don't know Sam's real name. He just goes by Brain, huh? That's a little lofty of a nickname, don't you think?"

Brendan's cheeks were ruddy with embarrassment, his face twisted into a scowl. "He lives up to it."

"I imagine he does."

Brendan was thankful the conversation was interrupted by Cobb and Mal waking. Brendan could see them moving out of the corner of his eye.

"I think that's a good combination," Mal said with a nod as she floated into the kitchen. Her hair was down today, and she was dressed in deep blues. It made her appear absolutely striking, making it easy to see why Cobb was so enamored with her. For a moment Brendan could only think of how easy it could be to fall in love with her if it weren't for his previous history with women and his current situation. He couldn't afford affection right now, straddling a very thin line between victory and defeat.

"Dom," Mal said over her shoulder as he followed in after her like the love-struck puppy he was, "give Juliet my regards. She's a very promising chemist."

"Well, it's what she's at school for," Cobb shrugged, a goofy smile spreading across his face as if Mal's compliment had been directed at him. "She's the best in the department which is why I asked her. She always has been really aware of how sensitive these chemicals can be when reacting to each other."

"You'll be learning about that too," Eames announced, turning his eyes back on Brendan. Brendan wasn't sure why he realized Eames's eyes were the same color as Mal's. "Today you may want to take some notes, actually."

"What? Why?"

"We're going to teach you the complete ins and outs of dreamshare," Mal informed him, beaming with pride. "You may not be properly militarized yet, but that doesn't mean you're incapable of learning to build or learning how to judge a good batch of Somnacin from a bad one. You'll likely be better at some things than others, but—"

"It's good to know the basics of how to do everything in case of an emergency situation," Brendan finished for her.

"Precisely," she said, smiling.

"I'll be teaching you how to build a little later," Cobb said. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of everything, and we'll be filling the world with my subconscious, so we don't have to worry about yours for the moment."

Brendan would have been skeptical that someone as bright-eyed as Cobb could really teach him anything if it weren't for the fact that he'd already seen the sprawling mazes he could build. Miles seemed confident that Cobb was the best architect he'd come across, as well as the most enthusiastic. Brendan didn't quite understand how no one could see the danger hiding behind that much raw talent. Thankfully, by the time Cobb inevitably caused things to crumble, Brendan would most likely be out of their lives. At least he hoped he would be.

"We're going to start with the chemistry of it all for this morning, and then we'll break for lunch. After that, we'll go into architecture and the basics of extraction. After all, if they're going to attempt to steal information from you, it's best to be prepared to take something back," Mal said, eyes glittering.

With that look, Brendan was sure Mal and Cobb would bring the world to its knees. He didn't know if that was a positive thing or not.

"Fine. Sounds good," Brendan said coolly, dragging his gaze back over to Eames. "So, what about you? Are you going to teach me to forge?"

"If you can figure out the basics," Eames replied. "Forging is a delicate thing, a very complicated process. I'll fill you in on the details if you get that far."

A challenge.

Brendan could work with that.

* * *

Brain came downstairs for the chemistry lesson, though he kept his laptop with him to continue research for Brendan, thoughtfully sitting in the corner of the room where no one could peer over his shoulder at the screen. Brendan considered himself a fairly smart guy, but even he had to admit that the whole lecture teetered just a bit over his head. Science wasn't necessarily his strongest subject, but he did get the basic idea of how it worked.

The mixtures had to be handled extremely carefully. Anything more dramatic might cause dangerous side effects, side effects Brendan was glad to know about though he sort of wished he hadn't asked. Apparently if the drug was too potent, there was a threat of dying in the dream and not waking up in reality, instead being sent down to an unconstructed dream space that was only referred to as Limbo. They didn't know much about it, but it was apparent that the very few people who had gone to Limbo never came out. Even if they were to awaken, so much time had passed in their minds that they were in vegetative states. It was horrifying to think about.

There were also the soldiers who had been convinced they were still dreaming even when they had woken up. Mal had of course come up with the idea of totems to help combat this feeling, but it wasn't a foolproof method. Many could convince themselves that their totems had been tainted, and a few had abandoned them all together. Some had been coaxed into believing they were in the real world… but the majority had committed suicide.

That bit of information caused a wave of grim silence to wash over the room. Cobb stared at the floor. Brain watched them all, pale-faced from the corner. Mal kept her head held high though her expression was heartbreakingly sad. Eames just fiddled with the toothpick in his mouth, remaining as distant as possible though the slump of his shoulders suggested it meant more to him than he was revealing. Miles just looked sadly accepting of the fact, so used to the information that all it seemed to do was wear him down and age him.

"It's a sensitive thing, Somnacin," Miles concluded with a small sigh. "We have to be as careful as we can, even as we try to explore its limits so that we can move forward with our research. There are problems we can't address in the first level of a dream, so we have to go further down, but that requires depth. We're walking a razor's edge. There are rookies out in the mind crime business that don't realize the risks. I don't care if they're going against my intentions or even that they're doing some rather despicable things. Every life lost to this device is a life I will wear on my conscience forever. I don't want any of your names to be there."

Brendan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his glasses. He didn't know what to say, so he figured it was best not to say anything.

"So," Miles said, "Just keep in mind that you'll want a chemist with good references should you ever need one. Let's move on."

They were supposed to break for lunch at that point, but it didn't seem like anybody had much of an appetite, so Cobb offered to go over some architectural basics. Brendan flipped to a fresh page in the notebook Brain had given to him and started writing again.

Cobb brought out a lot of drawings, large swaths of paper with intricately detailed mazes sketched over just about every had created not just rooms or houses but entire cities all straight from his imagination. He'd sketched out the patterns that would be built into the bricks, the amount of cracks in the sidewalks, even where each car would sit in the street. It was hard to be anything but impressed by the amount of detail as Brendan let his fingertips linger over the ivy-lined fence that surrounded the park. Cobb looked a bit proud of it himself.

"You don't have to make it as complicated as all of this, especially if it's your first time building. If you try to keep track of every detail when you're still adjusting then things are going to fall apart," he explained. "It's good to draw from what you know, but always remember not to make anything identical to what it's like in the real world. It's easy to lose track of reality that way."

"I've built before," Brendan said softly, causing the whole room to turn and look at him. He swallowed and said, "I… once or twice, by myself, before I came here. I figured it out on my own. It wasn't like this though… I didn't make a city this sprawling."

"You made a city?" Cobb asked, eyes wide, excitement bubbling underneath his surface. "You built a maze though, right?"

"I don't… I don't know, I don't remember."

Cobb nodded, pursing his lips as he studied the drawings splayed out on the table. He removed a few of them to set on the floor, revealing an aerial drawing of the same city. Brendan immediately saw an elaborate maze formed out of the streets and alleyways. "It's always important to make a maze, even if you're just occupying the dreamscape with a single building. If the projections get wise to their intruders, it's harder for them to find us if they have to search through something this complicated. The maze is always the first step, and then you can start filling in the details, but still it's not bad for a rookie. Most people don't even realize how limitless their imaginations can be down there. You can build things that not only don't exist but _can't_ exist in reality. That's the true beauty of it, really. It's pure creation."

"Fascinating," Brain said, and it was obvious that he meant it.

Brendan wrote down the bullet points. "So, the maze buys you time in a sense," Brendan clarified.

"Yeah, exactly," Cobb continued. "Still, a maze won't do you any good if the subject whose subconscious you're intruding on realizes they're dreaming immediately. Projections aren't friendly when they find out someone doesn't belong, as you are no doubt well aware of by this point. I'd like to think there's a way to get the subconscious on your side, but I haven't figured it out yet."

Oh, yes, Cobb was terrifyingly dangerous.

"Anyway," Cobb went on, "you have to make a good maze." He dug in the bag of supplies he'd brought with him until he produced a pad of graph paper and a pen, handing it to Brendan. "Draw a maze in one minute that takes at least two minutes to solve."

Brendan looked at the paper and then up at Cobb. Cobb just nodded his head, signaling him to attempt it.

His attempts were fruitless. Within ten minutes he'd failed ten times. Within twenty, it was twenty times. At first Brendan was convinced that it was because Cobb was so used to constructing complicated mazes, but when he made the argument, Cobb assured him, "That's sort of the point."

Brendan sighed and looked back down at the paper, chewing on his bottom lip. He tossed it down on the table and shuffled off to the kitchen, brewing another pot of coffee and finishing off a cup of it before returning. "Okay," Brendan said.

Cobb looked at his watch and said, "Go."

Brendan picked up his notebook instead and drew an oval-shaped swirl, adding in as many walls as he could manage before Cobb called time and took it. He studied it for a moment, humming. He found the exit at exactly two minutes and one second.

"Now we're talking," Cobb said, grinning boyishly. "You might just be teachable yet, Arthur."

"If only he wasn't so bloody stubborn, yeah?" Eames piped up from behind, startling Brendan.

Brendan snorted. "I don't think you have room to talk, _Mr._ Eames."

"I never said that I did, _Mr._ Frye."

"So, shall we go under and see what you can come up with?" Cobb asked.

Brendan sighed, taking his notebook back from Cobb and tossing it to Brain who was still settled in his corner. He caught it without even looking up from the screen.

"Eames," Cobb said as he and Brendan settled in their chairs. "Keep your eye on the timer for us, would you? I want to see what he can get up to in ten minutes."

Eames just nodded, smirking a little when Brendan hastily jerked his arm away and slipped the needle in himself.

"Such a stubborn boy," Eames remarked again.

"I don't need your help," Brendan reminded, sitting back and closing his eyes.

"Sweet dreams," Eames said and pushed the button.

* * *

"Shit—" Brendan stammered as he stepped backwards onto the sidewalk, a car zooming by right where he was standing, blaring its horn. He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the lamp post. Once his heart calmed down a bit, he took in his surroundings.

He wasn't familiar with this city, but at the same time there were so man eerily familiar things about it. The architecture was mostly Spanish Colonial, just like back at home, but he had traveled through every inch of San Clemente, and this wasn't a part of it. There were things about it that just weren't right, though Brendan couldn't pinpoint exactly what that was. Maybe it was just a tad too cold, or maybe the buildings were a little too tall. It felt almost as if some other city had packed up and rebuilt itself on the west coast.

"This is pretty good."

Brendan looked over his shoulder to find Cobb slouched against a nearby wall, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and then it all registered.

This was a city Brendan built in his imagination.

"Not too shabby, I guess," Brendan said, looking down at his shoes. "Doesn't really feel quite right."

"Don't worry about that," Cobb said, pushing himself off of the wall and nodding at Brendan to walk alongside him. "It's a feeling that never quite dissipates, but it's usually stronger in new builders, especially if they don't have time to draw out their maze beforehand. It's that feeling of being lost, you know?"

"I guess… Lost, huh…" Brendan mumbled, falling into step behind Cobb. "So, can you tell if my maze is any good just from what you've seen?"

"I can sort of feel it out by taking stock of my surroundings. Even without experience, your brain will fill in gaps with things that just make sense. I know what to look for. With a little bit of practice, you could be an adequate architect, which is more than I can say about a lot of people."

Brendan wondered if he should point out how pompous Cobb was at the moment, but he figured it was probably better not to.

"Everything fits together well enough, though you'll need to remember that the details should make sense. An architect needs the worlds they create to blend into the background so that the dreamer doesn't recognize that something is strange. That doesn't mean you can't get creative, of course, but you see how these lamp posts are Parisian?"

Brendan hadn't noticed until now. He did have to admit that they looked pretty out of place.

"Something as small as this can alert the dreamer and let them know that this world isn't real which in turn makes their projections, in this case my projections, suspicious. See?"

Cobb's projections hadn't stopped moving, but they were giving Brendan rather nasty looks.

"Okay, so I'll just change the lamp posts."

"You might not want to. They're suspicious now, but if you start changing things, it'll only get more obvious. This is just a practice run, so don't worry about it too much. Might be refreshing to see my projections rip you apart for once." Cobb grinned at him over his shoulder, obviously teasing.

"You're not Eames, are you?"

"God, no," Cobb laughed brightly. "I take that as an insult."

"He seems more the type to joke about limbs getting torn off."

"Yeah, well, don't ask me to understand how Eames's mind works. He's fucking wily as hell. I don't know anything about him and I've known him for a year. He's really good at saying a lot without telling anything. I don't know if you've noticed that or not."

Brendan hadn't but mostly because Eames had told him something. He'd told him about his friend, the one he'd been in the military with… Maybe that information was insignificant though.

"You've got great organization in your builds," Cobb continued on as if they weren't just talking about something else. "A lot of pristine lines. I wouldn't have expected that from you from the way you dress, but I guess it's a good thing. It throws people off. You're way more organized inside your head than you appear. Mal says clothes say a lot about a person."

"So what do my clothes say about me?" Brendan huffed.

"You'd have to ask Eames. I can't read people that well, not like he can. That's why I can't forge. I'm trying to get better though."

"Why?"

Cobb grinned over his shoulder again. "I want to be the best in the business."

They were all terrifyingly dangerous.


	10. Chapter 10

**TEN**

"Laura's in London."

Brendan was still awake, sprawled out across his bed like a corpse, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to make his brain shut down when Brain burst in. He didn't wait for Brendan to ask questions, crawling onto the bed and setting the laptop down on Brendan's stomach for him to see.

There, in a grainy black and white photograph was no doubt Laura Dannon. Brendan would recognize her face anywhere.

"I got a picture of her off of the security cameras at a Tesco," Brain said. "She just bought a deck of cigs and walked out. This was two days ago. I haven't found a more recent shot, but we do know that she's not far."

"Great," Brendan said sarcastically, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. "Shit."

"So what do we do?"

"Not sure yet," Brendan admitted, sitting up and passing the laptop back off to Brain. "Keep hunting for images of her. Try and obtain a pattern to her movements and see if we can pinpoint where she's staying. I want her under my thumb. If we find out where she's going all the time, maybe we can find where Wells is and get rid of the problem. Might as well go straight to the top and let everything else crumble on its own."

"Get rid of…" Brain trailed off, quiet for a minute. Brendan got out of the bed in the meantime, going to the double doors that led out onto the terrace and looking out into the night. "Brendan… are you going to kill him?"

"I…" Brendan sighed. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet."

"O-okay, but… It's never been like this, Brendan. You never went into these kinds of things with the idea that you might off someone."

"Who says I didn't? Just because I didn't tell you doesn't mean that I didn't."

"I know you, Brendan. You might not have an outstanding moral obligation, but you know better than anyone how messy a body on your name is. You wouldn't kill someone unless you had no other choice… Do you really think you're backed that far into a corner?"

"I already told you I don't _know_ ," Brendan snapped, fists clenching. He released a small, shaky breath to calm his nerves.

No matter how much Brain might have known Brendan, he wouldn't understand this. Brendan already had plenty of bodies on his name, even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself. He didn't think he was trapped just yet, but everything was still very up in the air. He didn't know what was going to happen, and that scared him. Brendan didn't like the fact that he couldn't make a plan of action, didn't like that he had to rely so heavily on these dangerous strangers to protect him.

"Brendan…" Brain said softly. "We could walk away from this. We could just go home and pretend it never happened."

"You know that's shit, Brain," Brendan sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the door. "They aren't going to let us lie, and the fact that we've been missing for days means it's not going to be quiet when we head back. There'll be questions. We've moved our pieces forward. We can't move them back now, not until the game is over."

"This isn't a game, Brendan. There are lives at stake."

Brendan rolled his eyes. "I was being metaphorical, Brain. I'm aware."

"I know you were," Brain said, "but I still had to say it. I needed to make sure you hadn't forgotten."

"What makes you think I've forgotten?"

"Nothing, but you've always been a bit of a hard read. You're spending a lot of time out of reality, down where deaths are meaningless, where killing people is meaningless. That kind of thing doesn't stay separate. When you wake up, that knee-jerk reaction will still be there, and I don't know if you realize that these lives are real and have connections to the world."

Brain paused, shifting awkwardly on the bed. "I know _I'm_ not really the best person to be spitting about human connections and lives. I'm no good at it. I've been invisible most of my life, which makes me a good informant but not so much a rung on the social ladder. I know all that… but even if I don't interact, I still know its value. I'm not saying that you shouldn't off him if you have to, all right? You do what you have to do to survive. That's not what I'm worried about. I'm just reminding you that you promised you wouldn't lose yourself, and I'm trying to hold you to that. You told me you wouldn't, but you've been kind of fading away ever since Em ended it."

Brendan was silent for a long time, smoothing his hands over the thighs of his pajama bottoms since they didn't have pockets to hide in. After a while, he asked, "Why does it matter so much to you, Brain?"

Brain snorted. "That's the dumbest question you've ever asked me."

Brendan lifted his head, glanced over his shoulder at Brain. "Keep your specs on for Laura," he mumbled. "Let me know what you dig up… and get some sleep. Your head's not completely right."

"Are you talking to me or to you?"

"Go," Brendan said, waving towards the door.

Brain shrugged, shutting his laptop and climbing off of the bed. "All right. I know when I'm not wanted. Still, think on it, okay?"

Once Brain was gone, Brendan threw himself onto the bed, buried his face in his pillow and sighed. As an afterthought, he remembered to take off his glasses and set them on the nightstand. He didn't fall asleep for another two hours when the swirling deluge of thoughts finally settled into a dull roar.

* * *

"Cobb says you're not too shabby at building."

Brendan looked from where he was scribbling in his notebook up towards Eames who had blocked his light with his shadow. "Yeah," Brendan said vaguely, "I guess."

"Did you still want a lesson in forging?"

Brendan blinked. "I thought you weren't—"

Eames shrugged a shoulder. "They did say they wanted you to know the basics of everything. Besides, you're a good builder which means you might have potential for forging. The least I can do is show you how it works and give you the tools to spot a forgery in the dream level."

"O… okay," Brendan said, weirdly agitated by the offer. Perhaps it was because Eames had presented it as a challenge before, and now he had forfeited so easily. It seemed that Eames's favorite thing to do was the opposite of what was expected of him. It only served to make Brendan all the more suspicious.

Still, he had picked up on everything else somewhat quickly, apart from Emily hunting them down in the mazes he made. Because of that, Cobb was apprehensive about letting him build with knowledge of the layouts, but Brendan wasn't about to let Cobb's worries stop him from doing anything. He settled into his chair and attached himself to the PASIV with Eames and allowed himself to be sent under.

When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor of a room with reflective walls, staring back at endless replications of himself in the mirrored glass. Eames was standing behind him, hands in his pockets and looking all around as smug and carefree as he usually did. Brendan stared at Eames's reflection rather than directly at him. "So, this is where the magic happens?" he asked flatly.

"I can have a bed built in if you like," Eames chuckled, the sound growing to full-blown laughter when Brendan's expression soured. "Oh, bloody relax, would you? Not everything has to be taken quite so literally. I thought we had this friendly banter going on between us, didn't we? I'm allowed to mess about."

Brendan got to his feet, brushing off non-existent dust. "Okay, fine. Let's just get on with the lesson."

"Oh, yes, we must be very focused," Eames said in the same mock-serious tone he'd used before.

Brendan rolled his eyes, turning to throw a barb in Eames's direction only to stop short. "Your eyes aren't supposed to be brown," he announced before he could stop himself.

"That's right," Eames said, blinking and revealing his dark blue eyes once more. "Being able to notice these little details are important when spotting a forgery. A forger will almost always pretend to be somebody that you know, someone you trust. Not all of them are as good at it as I am, so they'll more often than not muddle up something, even if it's small. Eye color is a rather big thing since it's something one can find out just from looking at photographs, but it's the way a person moves that can be a dead giveaway. For example—"

Brendan jolted back as he found himself suddenly staring back at himself. For a moment he thought it was a trick of the mirrors, but this version of himself was wearing an Eames-like expression. It clicked almost instantly, and Eames-Brendan grew pleased at the reaction.

"You see?" he said in Brendan's voice. "Even though I'm wearing your body, you can tell that it's me. It might not even be entirely obvious, but the way I carry myself is nothing like you. You know yourself well enough that you can instantly see what's not working. Of course, no forger would forge as you to fool you, but it's to make a point. If someone were to take on the form of one of your mates—"

Suddenly, Eames had shifted form into Brain, from his dirty white Converse tennis shoes to his signature plaid-patterned shirts to his magnified eyes behind oversized glasses. Eames-Brain shifted his shoulders a few times, testing out his new bones, and then slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Brendan knew that he was actually looking at Eames in disguise, but his thoughts kept firing out that he was looking at Brain. In the dream world, it was hard to keep track, even though he'd witnessed the shift before his own eyes.

"I'd say I've got a pretty good read on your friend, don't you think?" Eames asked in Brain's voice. "I've been able to give him a slant more than once though. Not all forgers are quite so lucky to be so close. Of course, most of those other scratchers don't have to deal with someone who pays such close attention to details, so it probably evens out somewhat."

Eames had learned Brain's slang, had even imitated the rise and fall of his voice absolutely perfectly. Even Brendan could admit that it was pretty incredible, if not a bit terrifying. "Eames, I am impressed," he said.

"Are you being condescending? I think you are," Eames said delightedly, his true self showing through the disguise. "Either way, you're being a little more open. You see how it works? Even though you know it's me, you're still inclined to be friendlier towards me when I'm wearing this face. That is why you absolutely must be cautious of anyone. Never give away any information if you can help it."

"I understand."

"Good."

"So, how do I forge as someone else?"

Eames-Brain took Brendan by the shoulder and turned him to look in the mirror in front of him. He discovered Eames in his natural form in the reflection. When he looked back, Eames had returned to normal. "It might seem simple, but it's actually pretty difficult. Don't feel dejected if you can't manage it. There's a reason why there are so few of us."

"What's so difficult about it? It's like acting, isn't it?"

Eames's lips thinned as he thought about the comparison. "No… well, not exactly. I guess in a sense it's similar, but when you're acting you never erase yourself completely. When it comes to forging down here in dreams, the best way to go about it is to literally _become_ your forge rather than pretend to be anyone. That requires deleting your entire being so that you have a space to fill up with the forge's consciousness. Even a good majority of those who consider themselves forgers never master it completely."

Brendan looked back to the mirror, staring at their reflections side by side. He had to admit that this whole concept of forging was intimidating. As much as Brendan liked to pretend he could separate himself from situations, he knew it wasn't very easy for him to. It was how he'd gotten wrapped up in Laura, how he'd gotten ensnared in that whole situation in the first place, and this situation too. It was personal. It had always been personal.

"Let's start with something a little less complicated than all that," Eames said, settling his hands onto Brendan's shoulders. His palms were warm against the fabric of his shirt. "Don't try to change yourself into someone else just yet. Let's start by changing your hair or your clothes. A lot of the time we have to forge ourselves into certain styles so we can fit into the dream. We don't want to be standing out like sore thumbs, now do we?"

Brendan shrugged his shoulders, mostly to get Eames's hands off of them. "Right, fine."

Eames stepped back a little, crossing his arms over his chest, humming. "Just focus on your reflection. That's where you'll want to start since you're still wet behind the ears. Once you get the hang of it, it should be as simple as blinking, but for now it's best if you see the changes."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. What kind of rags am I supposed to change into?"

"Surprise me."

Brendan sighed through his nose, staring intently at his reflection, trying only to focus on his clothes and none of the other things that were taking up residence in his head. He first put together a suit, dove gray, a little big and with a black tie. He imagined a long black flogger coat over the top of it and black leather gloves. He mentally combed his hair, brushing through the tangles until his hair was pushed off of his face completely, and then let a gray fedora reminiscent of the detectives he'd seen in movies settle over the top of his tamed curls.

As he pictured it, piece by piece, it slowly started to appear in the mirror. He was grateful that he wasn't the excitable type, otherwise he probably would have lost his focus. Instead he just stood completely still until the image had solidified in the mirror. He even banished his glasses, finding that the dream world provided him with perfect vision as long as he decided that was the case.

"Well, look at that," Eames said, pleased. "I certainly didn't expect bloody Sinatra. It's quite a classy look for you. Mal was right, you do have a face underneath all that hair and attitude."

Brendan realized quickly that without even a thought the clothing he'd created in the mirror had moved to his actual body. He flexed his fingers, feeling the slight resistance of the leather. "I hardly think you should be the one jawing about attitude."

"When have I ever acted a sourpuss?"

"Never," Brendan replied, expression growing awkward as Eames started inspecting the clothes more closely, "but the fact that you never get angry is a little concerning, don't you think?"

"Do you think I should hold onto my anger like you do?"

Brendan stayed silent, trying not to jerk his arm away from Eames as it was pulled up. He wanted to curl up into himself and hide, but he knew Eames would know he'd hit a nerve. He didn't want to give him that satisfaction.

"It's my turn to be impressed," Eames announced. "You've got an eye for detail, that's for sure. Even the seams are stitched in here accurately. These gloves are especially nice… The only problem is that you didn't change your shoes."

Brendan looked down at his feet, flexing his toes in the worn-out Dexters he'd been wearing since freshman year of high school. Their brown color, scuffed exterior, and splitting soles certainly didn't fit with the rest of the look, but Brendan hadn't even thought about it. They were the only pair of shoes he'd owned and worn for years.

"How did I miss…" he started to say but trailed off.

"It's not about missing it," Eames said. "This is what I mean by not being able to separate yourself. This is a manifestation of you not being able to completely let go… Oh, and by the way, that's part of why I don't hold onto my anger. It just leaves you with dirty shoes."

"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?" Brendan asked, squinting at Eames skeptically.

Eames just laughed, pushing Brendan's hat down over his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be singing a swinging standard by this point?"

Brendan huffed, taking the hat off and smoothing his hand over his hair. "I was going a little less Sinatra, a little more Humphrey Bogart."

"Oh, well," Eames chuckled instantly shifting form to the actress Ingrid Bergman, mimicking her look and voice to absolute perfection, "perhaps we could go to Casablanca sometime once you get that little dishy blonde under control?"

Brendan cut his eyes towards Eames, aggravation lining his expression. "I do have it under control."

"I'd hate to see it out of control. I imagine that projection would be much more brutal; it would probably go after all of us rather than tearing through us to get to you."

"Can we get back to business? You're supposed be teaching me to forge."

Eames-Ingrid seemed to be resisting the urge to roll her eyes but otherwise didn't say anything. Instead he slipped back to his own skin. "Go back to the way you were before. We'll start trying to mimic others voices, and if you can manage that then we'll work towards transforming your physicality. I'm warning you that it most likely won't work. Mal can mimic voices but can't change her form, and that was only with several, several hours of practice. Cobb can't forge for shite. I'm inclined to think you'll lean more to his side of the spectrum."

"And why is that?"

"For the same reason I already told you. You don't know how to let go. Cobb hangs on tighter than anyone I've ever known, and you're a lot like him in that aspect. The only difference is that he's obsessed with a bint who happens to still be alive."

Suddenly all Brendan could see was red. "What gives you the right—" he started to say, cutting himself off when the mirror behind him splintered into a spider web of cracks.

"Under control, hm?" Eames said tightly.

The glass shattered, revealing Emily waiting behind it with the brick she'd used to break it. She was dripping with water and pale, her soft white jacket hanging too far over one shoulder.

"Eames—" Brendan whispered, right before she pulled back her arm to smash his face in.

Eames, without missing a beat, pulled a gun from thin air and promptly shot Emily in the forehead, causing her to crumple lifelessly to the floor. "Okay, back to the lesson."

Brendan just stared at her body amongst the broken pieces of glass, blonde tangles of hair hanging over her soft face, blood pooling behind her head. It made his stomach twist unpleasantly, made his eyes sting.

"Why… why did you do that…?" he asked softly, voice trembling.

"She was about to beat you to death with a brick," Eames said flatly, "What did you expect me to do?"

"I would have just woken up. You… you didn't have to shoot her. She's just a projection!" he shouted. Her blood was spattered across the front of Brendan's t-shirt, bright red.

"Err… yes, which is why I'm not entirely sure what you're so upset about. I already told you that she's not real. Would you rather your face resemble hamburger meat?"

"She…"

"Forget it. This lesson is over with," Eames sighed. "The lesson you really need to be taught is that you've got to be able to put a bullet between the eyes of someone or something harmful. If you can't fight this projection yourself, then it's never going away. Get your shite together."

Before Brendan could register a complaint, Eames fired a round into Brendan's skull as well, sending him toppling clumsily backwards until he was laid out right next to Emily, their blood mingling, their hands just touching each other.

As everything turned cloudy and faded around Brendan, he heard Eames mumble, "That's a bloody shame."

* * *

When he awoke this time, he didn't panic. At least he was getting used to being shot, he supposed. Brendan sat up, blinking a few times so that the phantom pain from the dream could completely fade. It didn't take Eames even half the time to adjust. He was already moving to his feet and sauntering out to smoke a cigarette.

"Didn't go well?" Cobb asked.

Brendan didn't respond, standing with a soft grunt, shoving his hands in his pockets and going up to his room. He slammed the door behind him.

Eames didn't understand. Brendan couldn't just shoot Emily.

Projection or not, it was the only way he could see her now.


	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

For once Brendan rose earlier than the rest of the house, waking and getting dressed while the sky was still dark. He pulled on his warmest clothes and combed his hair with his fingers and headed down.

Brain had continued to obtain pictures of Laura around London for the past four days, but he had yet to pinpoint an exact location. Brendan had decided it was best to do a little sniffing on his own. Not knowing her movements distressed him even though it was possible she wasn't even involved in this mess. He may not have known Laura well enough not to fall into her trap before, but experience had taught him to be cautious now.

Besides, ever since Eames had killed Emily, Brendan had been feeling claustrophobic in Mal's house. He felt like everyone always had their eyes on him, like they were watching his every move. He worried that they were beginning to suspect him of insanity, that they were rethinking their decision to train him on the PASIV device. Everyone watched but no one said anything. Even Brain had closed his head on the matter, though Brendan doubted it would stay that way. Brain had the tendency to fight with himself over whether or not he was overstepping his boundaries by telling Brendan what to do, but eventually he would always conclude that he had to say something if only to know that he'd at least tried.

Sometimes Brendan wondered why Brain stuck around.

He shook off his thoughts and took the stairs quietly before making a beeline for the front door. He was one foot out the door when a voice said, "Won't you get cold?"

Brendan thankfully managed not to jump this time, turning to see Mal's silhouette on the stairs. Considering she had just gotten out of bed, she looked far too beautiful, dressed in a pair of silk pajamas partially hidden under a fleece robe. Brendan couldn't tell the exact colors in the darkness.

"I've been through worse," he shrugged.

Mal smiled, finishing her descent down the steps. "You don't have to act so tough all the time, Brendan."

"I thought I was Arthur while I'm here."

"You are," she said, opening the coat closet door next to him, "but it's nice to hear your true name sometimes. Every once in a while you need to hear your own name to know that people still see you."

" _You think nobody sees you,"_ Laura's voice whispered in his ear, a memory he thought he'd forgotten, " _eating lunch behind the portables. Loving some girl like she's all there is, anywhere, to you_."

"Here," Mal said, wrapping a warm parka around Brendan's shoulders. "This is one of Dom's coats. You two are about the same size. It should keep you warm. Where are you going?"

"Just taking in the sights," Brendan mumbled, accepting the coat. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Someone has to take care of you, after all," she replied, oddly fond as she pushed some of his hair off of his forehead. "Someone should make sure you stay fed, that you get the sleep you need, and that you don't go out into the cold without a winter coat. You need someone to show you that it's okay to need help sometimes, and that it's okay to ask for it."

Brendan wasn't really sure how to respond, so he said nothing, just ducking his head so that she wouldn't see the heat in his cheeks.

"Will you be back?"

"Unless someone offs me."

He was thankful that she didn't ask him what he was really up to, instead standing awkwardly while she wrapped a scarf around his neck and handed him a pair of gloves. He also didn't ask why when she wrote down the phone number for the house and shoved it into his pocket.

* * *

It took him some time to figure out how to have his American money exchanged, but the first thing he did after was purchase a ticket for the Eurostar train to take to London via the underwater tunnel. He picked up a small baguette and a block of cheese to nibble on during the ride and tried not to think too hard about where he was going and why.

Brendan couldn't help but worry about his reaction to Laura. He considered himself capable of self-control even during some of the more high risk situations of his life, but Laura was the reason Emily had been put in front of the gun. The longer Brendan sat on that truth with the ghost of Laura's lips stealing away Emily's last kiss, the angrier it made him. She'd played him for a sucker, just like everyone else. He had known she was dangerous, but still he'd fallen for it. He couldn't help but want her to hurt, to feel the pain that she'd caused him.

He wasn't out to be seen by Laura however. He was hoping to see her without her spotting him in return so that he could track her movements, find out how deep her involvement was with Wells and his mind crime community if at all. If she was a part of it, then… well, he didn't know, but it just didn't sit right to not know. Besides, if he got a leg up on where this Wells was hiding out, that would be an advantage he would have over the other man. It was an advantage he and the rest of Mal's group of people could afford to have, no matter how talented they were at dreaming. He wasn't in it for them, but he was sure they'd still appreciate it.

By the time he got off the train, the sun had risen. It was still bitingly cold, so he was grateful for the coat and scarf and gloves. He moved quickly through the streets with his hood up as a drizzle of rain fell. It took some difficulty, but he finally found the part of town where Laura had mostly been spotted. From there all he could do was wander about for a while, stepping inside shops to warm himself up when he felt too numb from the cold, perusing the shelves but not buying anything. The distance between him and the house helped clear his head a little, even though at times he still tried to make sure he couldn't change anything about the scenery. He hated the confusion between dreams and reality, noting to himself not for the first time that he really did need to find himself a totem.

Brendan kept wandering around well into the morning, but more and more often he found himself having to duck into a store so that he could feel his hands and feet again. Once lunchtime had rolled around and he hadn't found anything, he decided to take a break inside a little hole-in-the-wall café. There were only a few people inside, either puttering about as they waited for their orders or sitting at the squashed little tables. There was a woman at the upright piano on the tiny stage, fingers tinkering along the keys in a bluesy improvisational tune. It was warm inside, which was all Brendan cared about. He moved to the counter and ordered a scone and a cup of black coffee before taking a seat as far away from the door and the cold as possible.

The coffee instantly made him feel better, sliding down his throat and pooling in his stomach until it had heated up his chilled bones. His stomach was gnawing for something a little more substantial than the scone, but it was all he could afford and be able to get back to Paris. It helped enough that he gathered his wits about him at least, which was what brought his attention to the stage.

" _Lady sing the blues so well, as if she mean it… As if it's hell down here in this smoke-filled world where the jokes are cold, they don't laugh at jokes… They laugh at tragedies…_ " the performer sang from her perch. All of the warmth Brendan had achieved drained out of him.

He always did have the tendency to just stumble into trouble.

It just so happened that this form of trouble was Laura Dannon at the piano.

" _Corner street societies… but they believe her. They never leave her while she sings. She make them feel safe…_ "

Laura's hair had been chopped off and dyed blonde, something he hadn't been able to see in the grainy photographs, her lips rouged and eyes lined with dark kohl, but there was no doubting it was her. He gripped his cup more tightly, considering making a casual dash for the door, but there was no point. Her eyes were already on him, watching him cautiously as she continued unperturbed through her song.

" _She says I can sing a song so blue that you will cry in spite of you… Little wet tears on your baby's shoulder, little wet tears on your baby's shoulder… and I have walked these streets so long, there ain't nothin' right… there ain't nothin' wrong… but the little wet tears on my baby's shoulder, little wet tears on my baby's shoulder_."

Brendan didn't let his absolute horror show on his face as he sipped carefully at his coffee. He looked down at the gloves and scarf he'd laid out on the table, having intended to stay a while, and he thought about putting them back on. He knew she would follow him out if he left, however, and he wasn't sure if it was safer to take the run-out or stay where there were possible witnesses. Laura certainly wasn't the type to use her hands to cause destruction, but he did know what she was capable of. His entire plan had already gone to shit, so he wasn't really sure what his next move should be. It was why he was frozen to his spot, feeling her eyes on him, as if she was singing to him directly.

" _Lady lights a cigarette, puffs away, no regrets. Takes a look around, no regrets, no regrets. Stretches out like the branches of a poplar tree, says I am free; sings so soft as if she'll break, says I can sing this song so blue that you will cry in spite of you… Little wet tears on your baby's shoulder, little wet tears on your baby's shoulder…_ "

He tried to remember if he'd seen a payphone around the area that he could use, looked around the shop for one. If he could get in touch with Brain, maybe he could manage some sort of damage control. He just needed to stay focused, needed to move, needed to _do something_ besides sit there and stare, but…

" _ **I've always seen you."**_

That memory from the morning was replaying again and again inside his skull, magnified by the way her eyes were boring into him from the stage, her red lips wrapping around the words of the song as expertly as they had the lies she'd told him. He could still taste her mouth on his even now, the heat of it, the flavor of her toothpaste mixed in with the salt of his own tears. Her long, strangely delicate fingers had pressed against his jaw, leaving invisible, permanent marks. Those same hands had slid down his back, playing silent music against his ribcage with the same dexterity that they danced along the keys of the piano… and he'd let her do it, let her tear him open, let her sink her teeth into him when he'd known how dangerous she was. He'd turned to her for comfort when she'd been the source of his anguish. It didn't matter how desperate he had been… He was the one who had made the mistake. In the end, all of it was his fault.

After all, Emily would never have been put in that spot if it hadn't been for him.

" _But now it's time to say goodbye… Some might laugh, but I will surely cry… Little wet tears on my baby's shoulder, little wet tears on my baby's shoulder…_ "

As much as he hated Laura for what she'd done, he couldn't pin all of the blame on her, and that made him angrier… and guiltier… than anything.

" _Lady lights a cigarette… puffs away… and winter comes, and she… forgets…_ "

The song came to a close with a soft round of applause from the few people who were still there. Laura offered a smoky thank you into the microphone before standing and brushing the wrinkles out of her trousers. She gathered the few dollars out of the tip jar sitting on the corner of the piano as well as her purse and stepped down off the stage, approaching the counter to order tea before turning her gaze back on Brendan. He didn't budge, holding his coffee cup with both hands.

Laura sighed through her nose, thanked the man behind the counter as she received her order and then walked over, settling into the chair across from him as if he'd invited her. "Fancy seeing you here, Brendan," she said casually. Brendan couldn't stop staring at the blonde of her hair, the same straw color as Emily's.

"Yeah, fancy that," he replied, equally casual though with a twinge of bitterness at the end. He took a gulp of his coffee and set it back down.

"I'm surprised you didn't take a powder when you saw me. I would have expected you to lam off before I caught wind you were here."

"How do you know I wasn't waiting for you?"

"The look on your face when you glommed me said it all," Laura said, corners of her mouth twitching in a non-smile before she sipped at the tea, leaving a blood red lip print around the rim, "not as astute as usual, are you?"

"I wouldn't have expected you to be out in the open, considering."

She shrugged. "I wouldn't exactly consider this out in the open."

"I'm sure you've got some dog under your thumb to bite if you need them to."

She sighed again, setting her cup down next to his. "You're so sure of what you know."

"Not really. From experience I think I can make my own assumptions."

Laura was unfazed by the biting remark. "You bring up a fair point," she said, "but I am here by myself. A girl's got to get out and have a little fun once in a while."

"Playing for tips is likely a better hobby than cutting back heroin."

She snorted. "That's true, actually. You're right. You're completely right. I did some really bad things back stateside, things I'll never be able to make up for, not completely. I know that. I knew that when I went in, but it spiraled out of my control. I know you think that I planned it out like that, but… that's not what I wanted."

Brendan rolled his eyes. "I didn't come here to talk about the past. I'm definitely not looking to patch things up with you, so you can ease off the sob story, angel, because I'm not buying it."

"I'm not asking you to," she said. "I know you didn't come here for me, but you're here, so I thought I should tell you. I'm not going to pretend that I don't have an idea as to why you're here… but I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you. I want to help you."

"The hell you do," Brendan snapped. "Don't feed me that. Don't even try to feed me that. You said you wanted to help me before, and you sent me to the slaughterhouse." His fists clenched on the tabletop, the urge to stand and fight nearly overwhelming his self-control.

"I told you not to go," Laura said coolly, leaning her cheek onto her hand. "I didn't want you to go because I knew how it would play out. I was just doing what I had to do to survive. You were never supposed to get so wrapped up in all of it, but once things had been set into motion there was nothing I could do but protect myself."

"Protect yourself?" Brendan laughed bitterly. "You started all of it."

"I didn't say it wasn't selfish," she said, voice gaining a slight edge to it. Brendan found an odd joy in the fact that he'd gotten under her skin even a little. "I was in it for myself. I wanted the money for myself. I wanted to get out. She ended up going down, and then you got involved. I didn't want you to get hurt, but you did. That's the tale. We both know it. There's no point in arguing semantics anymore. It's not going to change anything."

"No, it's not. You've got a hell of a lot of nerve to think I'd even think about trusting you."

"Can I ask you something?"

Brendan remained silent but didn't refuse.

"If it hadn't been in my locker. If your tale had been a fantasy, what would you have done?"

"It was in your locker."

She folded her hands on the tabletop, eyes downcast. Brendan's gaze was drawn to her lips, still bright red. "I meant what I said in the locker cage… back before all of it."

Brendan knew what she meant immediately. He'd been thinking about it all day. All the same, he wasn't about to let her think that the shit she'd fed him that day meant anything to him now. He feigned ignorance.

Laura's gaze never faltered. "I always saw you. I saw you back there, eating your lunch by yourself, your heart broken over a girl who couldn't love you. You felt abandoned by her… and all you'd ever tried to do was protect her. I've never had anyone to protect me, probably never will, but… I did want to. It was my fault to think I could after everything that had already happened."

"Yeah, right."

"I mean it," she said firmly, reaching out and placing her hand on top of his. He probably should have immediately jerked his hand away, but he found that he couldn't. Her nails were painted the same color as her lips, the polish chipped and in need of a new coat. "Look, I… I made a lot of mistakes, and… I'm sorry, Brendan. I really am."

Brendan's eyes stung. "The hell you are," he mumbled, but all the fight had drained out of him. "People died, and you're sorry? Bullshit. You've never been sorry a single day in your life, angel."

She huffed out a dejected laugh. "I don't expect you to believe anything I say, Brendan."

"Then why say it? For the sake of it?"

She shook her head. "I don't expect you to understand. All I am to you is the girl who took Emily away from you, but she wasn't yours when it happened, and she wouldn't have gone back to you even if she had lived. You've got reason to be angry, but you can't say that Emily didn't choose her path on her own. It ended badly, and I played my part in it, but that's not why you're upset."

"I'm not upset. Nothing I could have done for Emily by then, but all the same I couldn't just let the deserving players go free. That's not how I do things."

"Liar," she said almost fondly, moving her hand off of his by her own volition. The skin tingled where her fingers had been, almost as if it missed the touch. "Don't pretend it wasn't anything but an attempt to avenge her. You loved her with everything you had, Brendan. Everyone knew it. I saw the way you suffered when she left you, the way you disappeared inside yourself. You're still carrying the weight of it, even now. You thought she'd always be yours, and she betrayed your faith in that belief."

" _You_ betrayed me," Brendan found himself arguing before he could stop himself. "You betrayed anyone who ever made the mistake of trusting you. You played chess with people's lives, and you sacrificed your pawns because they meant nothing to you."

"Yeah, I did."

"It's a pity that you still lost," Brendan said with cynical enjoyment.

She smiled at him, but her eyes were sad. "I don't think anyone won in the end."

Brendan looked down at the tabletop, humming. He spotted her purse and grabbed it, and he silenced Laura's protests before they could begin with a glare. "If you want me to even think about trusting you, you'd better be a little more open than that."

She buttoned her lip and sat silently while he sifted through her belongings. A clutch wallet with a fake I.D. and a few bills of money for various nearby countries, a fake passport, various make-up items, and a handful of receipts were all inside, but none of those things interested him as much as the small, black notebook filled with names and numbers and the pistol—a Colt M1911.

Laura shifted in her seat. "Can we go outside? I need a cigarette."

Brendan didn't smile so much as tightly turn up the corners of his mouth. "Sure," he said.

They stepped out, Brendan shoving his gloves into his pocket and haphazardly tossing his scarf around his neck. She grabbed her pack of cigarettes from the purse, holding up her hand cautiously as he watched her every move. She lit the end of one and then deposited the box and lighter back where they had been for him to sift through at his will. He waited until he was sure no one was around, and he pulled the gat out from her purse, checking the chamber. There was only one bullet in it. "Protection?"

"Of a sort." Smoke billowed from between her lips, obscuring her face.

"I'll just take this then," he said, sliding it into the back of the waistline of his jeans. "This too," He added, snagging the notebook and pocketing it. He checked the rest of the pockets of the bag before deciding nothing else useful was inside and tossing it back to her.

"Wait," Laura said. "Hand me the notebook."

"Not a chance."

She sighed, longsuffering, and amended, "A piece of it then. A blank sheet."

He conceded, and she pressed it against Brendan's chest as she scribbled out an address and put it in his hand, folding his fingers around it. "If you want to keep your thumb on me, that's where I'm staying," she said.

"You mean where you're hiding?"

"Call the bulls on me if you want. Do whatever. I'm not going to fight you this time, Brendan. You don't even have to believe that's my real joint, but this is all I can do."

Brendan couldn't think of a sharp barb to lob in her direction, so he just silently pocketed it, just like he had with the phone number Mal had given him that morning.

"You might want to scram soon," Laura said, wrapping her arms around herself. Her coat was still inside somewhere, if she even had one. "Johnny and his boys tend to come around this part of town for drinks when they take their breaks. Munroe already had his best point spot you on airport security cameras, so they know you're here. Considering you stole from them, they seem pretty jazzed up about giving you the beat down… and they'll do it slow."

"I'm not afraid of them."

"You've never been afraid of anyone in your whole life, even if they're terrifying. It's what will get you killed one day, you know?"

"I'll take my chances."

She looked at her feet and then back up at him, lips parting slightly.

Before she could say anything else, he said, "Blonde doesn't suit you by the way," and walked away.

In hindsight, he probably should have heeded her advice.

It was hard not to think that way when he put the black notebook he'd been flipping through away to find that, having not paid close attention to his surroundings, he had been spotted and followed.

It was hard to think of anything at all when he was met with a pipe to the face.


	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE**

Brendan was shivering as he slumped inside a phone booth near the Thames; the rain had started up again, soaking him through. It hurt to move even a little, and he squeezed his eyes shut in a wince as he dialed the number on the crumpled sheet of paper stained with water and blood in his other hand.

Brendan hadn't taken Laura's words to heart, having thought she'd been blowing smoke. He'd been much more interested in looking through her little black notebook while the rain had let up, finding a couple of familiar names—Monroe, Charlie, and Haji, as well as John Wells himself—and a whole lot of other names he didn't recognize. He honestly couldn't wait to get the book into Brain's hands and see what sort of magic he could work with so much information. He couldn't help but think about the possibilities.

It had been so cold, and he'd been tired from wandering around and worn down from the emotional roller-coaster that was seeing Laura again, and he was starving too. The half-eaten scone still back at the café hadn't gone far in quelling the rumbles of his stomach. He was thinking only of getting on the train and getting back to Mal's house, where he could curl up under a bunch of blankets and hide from the miserable weather for a while. Brendan generally made the effort not to suffer from stupid mistakes, but even he was capable of them, and when he'd looked up at the sound of his name, he had just enough time to see the metal pipe swinging towards his face. Pain had _exploded_ through his skull, his vision going white and his hearing turning to white noise, and when his senses had more or less returned he had found himself on the ground and being pummeled. The blow had sent his glasses flying off in some direction along with a couple of his back teeth and a good amount of blood, and he realized just how grave an error he'd made.

The pipe fell upon his arm and shoulder, his ribs, his legs. He had curled up in an effort to keep his head from taking the blows, but the man hitting him was unceasing. Brendan had only gotten a split second to look at the brute—his squashed red nose, his steel gray eyes—but it was pretty obvious that he was one of the boys Laura had been referring to. He sort of wished she was there in that moment, though he wasn't so sure if she would actually try to help him or just watched. Honestly, he just wished he had someone, anyone there.

He kicked the unknown assailant harshly in the shin once, twice, again. It wasn't much, but it was apparently painful enough to make the man momentarily let up. Brendan used that moment to scramble to his feet, stumbling backwards to avoid the swing of the weapon. His right eye was already swelling shut from the bruising, the fresh, coppery taste of blood prominent in his mouth. Without his glasses, it was hard to judge his distance, and when the pipe was swung at him again, it managed a hit, sending him crashing back to the ground.

A hand immediately clamped down on his throat, nearly large enough to wrap around it all on its own. He made a gurgling sound, squirming in a useless effort to fight off his attacker. Even with only one good eye and already terrible vision, he could see the man's teeth, his pale hair, his flushed skin. He was heavy but built like a boxer, older, probably used to play some sort of sport. He was saying something, but Brendan couldn't make it out over the blood rushing through his ears.

"P-please," Brendan spluttered, hands grabbing at the man's shirt in desperation. His knuckles were bloody, fingers shaking and unable to hold their grip. "St-sto-stop—"

The ringing in his ears dulled a little as the man relaxed his grip on his neck, but only a fraction. "—doesn't have to end like this," Brendan caught him saying. "Just tell me where to find the PASIV you stole."

Brendan coughed, blood seeping out from between his lips. "I don't… know what you're talking 'bout," he rasped, letting out a yelp as the man tightened his grip again. "I don't know, I don't know—"

"Don't play dumb with me!" the man shouted, Brendan flinching at the spittle that dusted him in the process. "You've got to be staying somewhere, and a little brat like you doesn't have the cash to just hop a plane to Paris. You're on the in and you took something that was ours so _tell me_!"

Accent—not English or French—maybe Dutch or German or—

Brendan whimpered, spots dancing in his already hazy vision. The man was still talking, still demanding answers. He could have been shouting or even whispering, but Brendan couldn't put it together.

Chillingly, he thought, _I'm going to die like this._

He squeezed his good eye shut, trying to dismiss those sorts of thoughts, but waiting behind his eyelids was an image of Emily, holding out her hand.

_Maybe this isn't even real… maybe this is all in my head…_ Brendan thought, finding that it calmed the panic his air-restricted body was struggling against. _Maybe it's just a dream. Maybe I'll wake up when this is over._

It was as if Emily's lips were next to his ear as he heard her whisper his name. " _Brendan_."

"M'…ly…" he choked.

And then, in his other ear…

" _The lesson you really need to be taught is that you've got to be able to put a bullet between the eyes of someone or something harmful."_

Eames.

" _If you can't fight this projection yourself, then it's never going away."_

It didn't matter if this was a dream or not. He couldn't let himself go down this easily.

" _Get your shite together."_

That wasn't how he did things.

Brendan used every ounce of strength he still had in him to slam his knee into the gut of the man holding him down, shoving him off and scuttling backwards, coughing and wheezing. His assailant had recovered alarmingly quickly from Brendan's blow, but Brendan wasn't stupid enough to think this man would go down from brute force alone.

That was when he remembered the gat he'd snagged from Laura's purse.

He only had one shot, and he'd never even fired a gun, _and_ he could hardly see. The odds most definitely were not in his favor, but he hoped that a bullet wound absolutely anywhere would at least distract the man long enough for Brendan to make a run for it.

His hands were shaking as he pulled the gun from its hiding place and pointed, finding that his attacker who had been lumbering towards him froze at the sight of it. Brendan couldn't afford to give him time to recover, so in that second where he stopped, Brendan fired.

The bang that rang out was the only thing he could hear over the fizzle. It hadn't sounded out as dramatic as he had expected.

The man crumpled to the ground in a heap, but for several seconds Brendan didn't dare move. He waited in the engulfing silence for a twitch, a movement of any kind, but there wasn't one. Cautiously, Brendan got to his feet, adrenaline being the only thing keeping him standing. He looked around for any sign of someone who might have heard, but the part of town he was in was excluded, run down, and abandoned. No one had heard, or if they had, no one had come to see what the ruckus was about.

Brendan found his glasses on the ground, one lens crushed, the other cracked. He put them back on anyway and approached the body, nudging him with his foot until the man rolled over.

There was a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Brendan's breath left him shakily as he stared down at the man, the person he had…

He looked at the gun in his hand and back to the body, swallowing another mouthful of blood.

…and the rain started to fall.

Brendan had run after that, hiding the gun back in his jeans as he tore through the streets. He only slowed down when he found himself in a more populated area, throwing his hood up over his dripping wet hair to conceal his bruised and battered face as best as he could. He made it to the Thames before his legs gave out, but he tossed the gun into the water just the same.

That was how he had ended up in the phone booth—wet, shivering, and pummeled.

He dialed the number, leaning heavily against the glass wall furthest from the door, and he waited.

After three rings. "Yeah, hello?"

"Eames?" Brendan queried, having expected Mal or… really anyone else to actually answer.

"Who is this?"

"It's…" Brendan sighed. He didn't have time for this. "Who do you think it is?"

"Arthur?"

"Put Sam on the line."

"Put… Oy, are you all right? You don't sound right."

"Eames," Brendan gritted out.

"Right, fine. Hang on."

There were a long couple of minutes where the other line was silent. Brendan coughed into his elbow, licked the blood off of his lips.

"Hey, yeah," Eames said as he picked the phone back up. "Your darling little Sam is snoozing. I don't think a bloody earthquake could wake him."

Of course Brain would heed his advice of getting some sleep the one time he needed him to be awake. "Fine. Forget it," Brendan mumbled and moved to hang up.

"Hold on now, hold on!" Eames exclaimed from the other end. Brendan put the phone back to his ear.

"Eames, I don't have enough lettuce to keep chinning with you."

"What did you need? I can give him the message."

"Don't worry about it. I'm heading back now. I'll be there in a few hours."

"Where are you?"

Brendan started to answer but ended up coughing again, the blood that had gotten into his lungs trying to get out.

"Brendan? Hello?"

Brendan slumped forward in the booth, vision momentarily going black. When he came back to, he was crouching, breath coming out of him in heaving gasps.

Eames was still on the line, calling out to him again and again.

"I'm… I'm here. Close your head, I'm here," Brendan sputtered weakly. "I'm in London. I'm taking the Eurostar train back."

"I'll pick you up."

Before Brendan could argue, the line went dead. He hung up the phone with a bit more force than necessary, wrapped his scarf around the bottom half of his busted face, pulled his hood back up, and limped the rest of the way to the station.

* * *

The long trip back to Paris gave Brendan plenty of time to calm his rapidly beating heart. As the adrenaline and horror over what he'd done settled, he started to really feel the effects of what his unknown assailant had done to him. He was sure the bruises were pretty brutal, dark enough that make-up wouldn't be able to hide them. The blood flow in his mouth had finally stopped, but he was still coughing it up, staining the scarf with speckles of it.

He'd gotten a couple of horrified stares from the passengers that bothered to pay him any attention, but mostly he was left alone with his thoughts.

A man was dead because of him.

It didn't matter that it had been an accident, that he'd only meant to wound—the blood was still on his hands. The moment that Brendan had seen the bullet in the man's skull, reality had slammed into him like a mack truck. When there was a body at his feet, a body he'd put there, everything became instantly real. Even though he'd done it in self-defense and he didn't even know the bastard who strangled him within an inch of his life, it was still a body on his name. Brendan had done a lot of dangerous, even horrible things, but he'd never killed anyone before. Paranoia crept in at the edges of his mind, whispering words of warning that the bulls would come for him, that they would find the gun that he threw in the river. It was a slim possibility, but a possibility just the same. After all, he was the suspicious gee sitting on the train with the bruised up mug and dried blood on his knuckles. He just hoped he didn't have an easily recognizable face.

Brendan slumped in his seat, aching in places he didn't even know he had. All he wanted to do was take a hot bath and then sleep for four days. He didn't think he'd ever been in such dismal shape. He could still hear his pulse in his ears, his head pounding. He kept his eyes closed for most of the trip in order to quell the sting the lights triggered. He couldn't wait to wash the blood out of his hair, disgusted by the way it stuck to the side of his head. He hoped cleaning himself up and getting some rest would calm the nauseous feeling as well. Allowing his concussed brain to quit for a little while would probably do him good regardless.

Before he realized it, the train was pulling to a stop. He'd dozed off at some point, he was pretty sure, but the ride back had been a little hazy anyway. He wasn't even sure if he was actually getting off the train or just dreaming it, but he didn't much care. Fantasy or not, he was closer to the house.

He shuffled off of the train and onto the platform, wishing he had enough money left over to hail a taxi. It was raining and miserable in Paris too, and he just wasn't sure he had the strength to hoof it.

That was when a hand landed on his shoulder, causing him to cringe. "There you are," Eames said lightly, holding an umbrella over the both of them. "See? I told you I'd come give you a lift—oh…" He trailed off when Brendan turned to look at him. Rather than toss out a gibe, Eames just wrapped his arm around Brendan and nodded in the direction of his Range Rover. He let Brendan lean all of his weight on him as he helped him to the car and into the passenger seat. With the heat blasting, Eames tore out of the parking lot, and Brendan momentarily considered dying in the seat.

"Oy, oy, don't fall asleep. Don't just sleep yet, yeah? Tell me what the fuck happened to you," Eames said, his voice seeming far away.

Brendan tried to answer regardless, voice rough from coughing. "Some number of John Wells… He came at me with a pipe."

"Bloody hell," Eames hissed. "What happened to him?"

Brendan stayed silent for a while, looking out the window. "I got away from him. What does it matter?"

"He could have followed you."

"No. He didn't."

Eames was quiet. Then, "You killed him."

Brendan coughed. "It was either him or me. I did what I had to do."

"Mm, I suppose so. Glad to see you're all right though, considering."

"I wouldn't call this all right."

"Alive then."

Brendan turned his head to look at Eames, studying his profile, the pointed nose, the plush mouth worked into a subtle frown, the brow lined with what almost looked like worry. He was pale and his eyes a bit distant, like he was looking at something that only existed in his memories now.

"Anything broken?" Eames asked before Brendan could question his concern.

"Don't know. Don't think so. I think I've got a concussion though."

"Yes, well, if someone goes at your skull with a pipe, I would imagine so. How did—no… What the fuck were you even doing over there on your own? Looking for trouble?"

Brendan dug in his coat until he found Laura's notebook, holding it up. "I got this out of it. Not a total loss."

"What even is that?" Eames grumbled, still not meeting Brendan's gaze. It was as if he couldn't bear to look at his face in the state it was in.

"A list of all of the guys who work for Wells, along with their numbers and addresses."

"Well, look at you, being productive."

Brendan coughed again, curling over in the front seat. He was only vaguely aware of the hand that slipped onto his back to help ground him.

* * *

Brendan jolted awake at the sound of the car door slamming and found they were back at the house. Eames opened the passenger door and helped him out. Brendan's legs nearly gave out on the spot, so he was actually grateful that Eames was there to catch him, still warm from the car.

"Come on, now, love. Easy does it," Eames said gently, pulling one of Brendan's arms over his shoulder. "Just hang on and I'll get you inside, yeah?"

Eames kicked the door to the Range Rover shut and together they made the slow trek to the door. Brendan leaned against the wall while Eames unlocked the door to the house, stumbling in ahead of Eames after he assured him he could manage it on his own. The steps looked impossible, but he ascended them anyway, Eames right behind him to make sure he wouldn't fall.

"Where's Mal?" Brendan asked as he hobbled into the bathroom, lowering the hood on his parka and slowly unwinding the scarf from his face and neck.

"Went with Cobb and her father to the University. Something about chemical adjustments. Now, turn around, let's get you out of those wet clothes and take a butchers at the damage."

"Butchers?" Brendan questioned.

"A look, darling, a look. You of all people shouldn't be teasing about slang."

Brendan would have shrugged, but he knew it would hurt, so he decided not to bother. He stripped out of his clothes, and with every damp, dirt and blood-stained article he dropped onto the floor, Eames got a little more ashen. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he supposed he understood Eames's horror.

"You're one giant bruise, aren't you," Eames said, running the bath. "Come on, off with your pants too. You need to get all that blood off of you."

"I think I can handle a bath on my own, Eames."

"Unless you pass out and go under. Don't be so bloody modest."

Brendan cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped out of his boxers before climbing into the tub. The hot water did help soothe his aches and pains some. It probably was good that Eames stuck around to help, since Brendan barely had the strength to lift his arms at the moment, and when Eames pressed a wet cloth to the spot on his head, he promptly blacked out.

Brendan came to when something cold was placed over his right eye. He knew he was on a bed, though it didn't feel quite like his own, and he knew he was dry and dressed. Someone was next to him, shushing him softly. It was then that Brendan realized he was whimpering.

He opened his available eye, looking up at blurry image of Eames.

"Welcome back," Eames said. "Hold onto these frozen peas. Keep them over your eye. It'll help the swelling go down. Take these pills too. It'll help with your aches."

"Is this real?" Brendan croaked, accepting the pills.

Eames's expression was unreadable while he watched Brendan pop the pills into his mouth, offering a glass of water to help wash them down. Brendan had to sit up on his elbows to drink, but as soon as the pills were down, he laid back down. "Let me tell you a story," Eames said when Brendan was comfortable again. "Stay awake for it, all right?"

Brendan watched as Eames got off of the bed (definitely not Brendan's bed—they must have been in Eames's room). "Do you remember the mate of mine that I told you about? The one that you reminded me of?"

"Scrappy, thin, sharp eyes?" Brendan asked, almost managing a smirk.

"Good to know your noggin is still intact. Yes, that one… Well, for the record, his name was Antony. He and I were in the same unit, both of us training under the PASIV device back when it was still being used in the military. He was basically you with an accent like mine, so you probably would have hated him." By then Eames had dragged an old shoebox out of the closet and settled back onto the bed. He opened it and handed Brendan a photograph. It was of Eames and, surely enough, a scrappy, thin, sharp-eyed boy with the same buzzed hair, both of them in combat uniforms. They were obviously drunk when the picture had been taken, hanging all over each other and laughing. Brendan wasn't sure he'd ever seen such genuine joy on Eames's face.

"That's him," Eames said needlessly. "A cheeky bugger. He always had a cutting word to sarcastically offer when it suited him. He was so clever you couldn't even be angry with him. A good man. The best."

"Why do you keep saying 'was'?" Brendan asked, though he already knew the answer. He just didn't know the reason behind the answer.

Eames sighed, and even though his expression was as carefully blank as always, Brendan could see the sorrow behind his eyes. Even with his vision hindered, he could tell.

"Shot himself," Eames sighed. "He got lost, thought he was still dreaming. He threw his totem away, didn't believe in it anymore. In the end, I think he'd seen so much that he didn't really believe in anything anymore."

Brendan wasn't sure what to say, so he stayed silent.

"Anyway, I didn't start this story to make you feel sorry for me," Eames said. "I wanted to tell you about the time before that happened, back before I lost him. We went to Mombasa while we were on leave. There was a casino there that we lost our arses on. It was a bloody good time. It was there that we got our totems, both of us. We were so inseparable it just sort of made sense that our totems matched, you know?"

Eames lifted a plastic bag full of crumpled paper and handed it to Brendan. "I never touched it. I don't know how it works."

Brendan didn't understand at first until he dug through the crumpled papers and found a little red die. "This…" Brendan said softly, wrapping his fingers around it. "This is…"

"He's got no use for it now," Eames shrugged. "I swear on his life that I never touched it. I grabbed it with the paper and kept it in this box ever since. It's not my place to know how his totem works, but I think he would have wanted you to have it… No one deserves to get lost."

Eames looked away as Brendan sat up fully, observing the little dents and scratches carefully before rolling the die onto the bedside table. Again and again the number came up. Three. Three. Three.

A loaded die.

Brendan pocketed it in the sweats he'd been put into. "Eames…. Thanks."

"Hey, someone's go to take care of you," Eames chuckled, flopping down onto the bed next to Brendan.

Brendan laid back down too, rolling his eyes. "Why does everyone keep saying that?" he huffed, wincing a little as Eames picked up the forgotten bag of frozen peas and placed it over Brendan's eye again.

"I can't imagine why anyone would think you need someone to take care of you," Eames teased. "I mean, look at what being on your own has done for you."

"Ha-ha, yeah, okay, you raise a fair point," Brendan said irritably. "This could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah," Eames said softly, hand grazing over the brutal marks on Brendan's neck. "He did a real number on you just the same."

Brendan found it hard to meet Eames's gaze, but he wasn't sure why.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your friend," Brendan said.

"Nothing to be done about it now. You can't save everyone, no matter how much you love them."

"You loved him?"

"Yeah… I did. More than anyone I ever have, probably."

Brendan swallowed around the knot in his throat. He wasn't sure what was causing this sudden influx of emotion other than the fact that he was so worn thin that he didn't have the strength to keep the wall up. "I loved someone like that once," he whispered.

"The blonde girl."

"Emily," Brendan amended. "Her name is… her name was Emily."

"What happened to her?"

"I didn't keep her safe…"

Eames sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Brendan."

Brendan squeezed his eyes shut. "Me too."

Eames moved the bag off of his eye, promptly changing the subject. "Swelling's gone down some. Can you open it now?"

It didn't open all the way, but he could at least see out of it. Eames was close enough to his face that he could make out his features clearly, could feel his breath ghosting against his face.

"You know," Eames said, "feeling guilty about it now isn't going to bring her back."

"It was my fault," Brendan confessed, and his voice wobbled unexpectedly. "It was all my fault…"

The next thing Brendan knew, Eames was shushing him again, his hand sliding through his hair, pushing it back off of his forehead. Brendan was vaguely aware that he was whimpering again, and he couldn't get it to stop. Just like the night when Laura had pulled him into his arms, whispering apologies and swallowing his sobs down the back of her own throat, he was overwhelmed. All of the fears and worries, the sleepless nights, the warnings, the escapes, the beating and the betrayals and Emily's coy smiles before she smashed a brick against the side of his face… the dead body on his name… and Laura's hand on top of his… It was all too much for someone to handle on their own.

Eames's mouth was pressed against the corner of Brendan's mouth, whispering little lies about how it would all be okay, telling him it was all right. Brendan turned his head into it until their mouths were slotted against each other's, if only to quiet him.

Maybe he just needed someone to touch him like this, just for a little while.

He just needed someone to take care of him.


	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN**

Eames's lips were soft and plump like Emily's, but they kissed with the same pressure and determination as Laura's. He could have compared the kiss to the ones he'd shared with Kara back when he'd been her boy toy were it not for the fact that she'd never kissed him on the mouth.

It was odd that any of the events were even comparable. He wouldn't have expected kissing a man to be anywhere close to kissing a woman, but perhaps that showed his lack of experience in the area. Eames had such a plush mouth anyway—maybe that was why. Brendan really didn't care as much as he probably should have. He just dragged Eames closer by the back of his neck, letting Eames erase what Laura had left, just like she had erased Emily's kiss.

Eames seemed hesitant at first, pulling back some, but it wasn't long until Eames's tongue was sliding between Brendan's teeth. Passion wasn't the proper word— _desperation_ was what Brendan was feeling, and apparently it was contagious. Brendan's hands were shaking and holding to Eames's t-shirt for dear life, and Eames's hands were scrambling in some attempt to touch him everywhere at once. Brendan's battered body protested his movements, but he couldn't stop. It took several minutes before they both stopped squirming enough in their feverish clash of teeth and lips and tongues to settle into a position. Their thighs were slotted together, one of Eames's hands keeping him propped up and the other on Brendan's hips. Brendan's hands had slid up underneath Eames's worn cotton t-shirt, settling on the warm skin of his lower back.

Eames's hands were warm, even through Brendan's clothes, and there was this weird security Brendan obtained just from being held by such strong fingers. Even as his tongue dragged against the roof of Eames's mouth, those hands were calming that desperation that had burned through him, almost turning the moment… tender.

They broke the kiss as suddenly as it started, breathing raggedly. Eames closed his eyes and settled his forehead against Brendan's and for a split second Brendan thought Eames might cry. It seemed so oddly out of character for him that it momentarily brought Brendan back to his senses.

"E… Eames…?" he whispered, breath still rattling in his throat.

Eames's hand slid away from Brendan's hip, his fingertips just ghosting over Brendan's lips before the hand planted itself on the other side of his head.

Immediately Brendan was aware of what was happening.

Eames had just remembered that Antony was dead, that he wasn't the one lying underneath him now.

"Eames—" Brendan tried again.

"Shh," Eames interrupted. "Just. For a moment. Please."

Brendan fell silent, turning his head to the side to cough into the pillow. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, how they'd gotten to this point. He hadn't ever explored much of an interest in the same sex, though he'd never been all that interested in anyone that wasn't ultimately destructive in some form or fashion. He wasn't positive that this… whatever it was… with Eames had even been spawned on any sort of attraction so much as the need to be touched, but… well, the way his cock was tenting his sweatpants seemed to imply that there had to be at least be some sort of allure. Eames was in a similar state, though likely loads more uncomfortable in the pair of jeans he was wearing.

Eames inhaled slowly through his nose, and let it out through his mouth. Brendan wondered if Eames could still smell blood on him even with the bath.

"Right. Yeah. Um. Yeah," Eames mumbled, promptly climbing off of Brendan and falling back onto his side of the bed.

The silence that fell between them was awkward and expectant, one waiting on the other to speak. Brendan fidgeted minutely, his hard-on unpleasantly distracting. He wasn't about to touch himself though, not with Eames lying right there, not now. A minute ago, it might have been acceptable, but for some reason it just didn't feel right too now.

"Well," Eames said in a breath. "That, um. That wasn't—I…. Bugger."

"Was that supposed to be a sentence?" Brendan asked flatly.

That managed to bring a smile back to Eames's face, crooked teeth and all. "It was a pretty shite attempt, wasn't it?"

The awkwardness dispersed like a sigh of relief.

"You should probably get some rest," Eames said, climbing off the bed. "We might both be acting a bit off our trolleys. It's… it's been an odd day. Today is not a good day for… for this." He made a waving gesture between the two of them with his hand. "You just. You rest. I'm going to ah… take care of some business."

Brendan had a feeling the 'business' he'd be taking care of was located at the zip of his jeans, but he didn't really feel like he had the right to make a sarcastic remark about it at the moment. He watched Eames shuffle out of the room and quietly shut the door behind him.

Brendan pretended the room didn't feel colder without Eames in it.

* * *

When Brendan awoke, the room was dim with sunset or sunrise. He didn't know how long he'd been out for, just that he was curled up under a mountain of blankets and feeling like he'd been run over by a steam roller and possibly a stampede of horses. For a long time he contemplated going back to sleep, but he never did have the ability to rest when he didn't know his situation.

He sat up with some effort, his bones and muscles aching in disapproval, and crawled out of bed after slipping on his still-cracked glasses. He was in Eames's bedroom still, but he was alone. The clock on the bedside table said it was six o'clock in the evening. He couldn't quite remember when he'd gotten back from London, but he was fairly sure it was after six. He must have slept the full twenty-four.

Brendan scratched a hand through his wild curls and sauntered to the mirror hanging on the closet door. He groaned in distaste at how dark the bruising had gotten, nearly turning the entire right side of his face purple. The split on his lip had turned dark brown with dried blood, as well as the slice along his cheekbone. His scuffed knuckles resembled his face in color. He imagined his entire body was colored with bruises just as obvious (the pain whenever he moved leaned towards that belief), so he was grateful that he couldn't see them all under his clothes. He uselessly attempted to tame his hair and then turned back towards the bed to maybe get a couple more hours of shut eye since he might as well…

…and then he paused.

He looked back at the closet door.

"Shit," he mumbled, swinging it open and crouching on the floor to dig through Eames's belongings. It wasn't an opportunity he'd had, and he'd feel more at ease if he knew Eames was someone he could trust. That was what he was telling himself, anyway.

Brendan searched pockets and shoe boxes and even the insides of shoes, but he didn't find anything of interest. He checked twice just to be sure but it turned up nil. He was oddly relieved.

Brendan got back to his feet and was just about to leave it be. He was ready to dismiss his paranoia and just go back to sleep, but it just wouldn't leave him. Something didn't sit right with him. Maybe it was because he had opened himself up to Laura and had ultimately been betrayed. She had wrapped him so tightly around her finger that even now he was conflicted over whether to trust her or not when the answer should have been obvious.

He looked under the bed and found a laptop case. He swore softly to himself for not thinking of checking there first. He unzipped the case and pulled out the laptop inside. It was a slightly older model, but only by a year or two. He imagined Brain would scoff at it if he saw it and contemplated taking it to his room to hack, but when he turned it on and the password screen came up, it only took him a moment to figure out what to type.

_A.N.T.O.N.Y._

The desktop appeared, the background a default. Brendan perused the icons on the desktop then opened up the main folders. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He kept digging though, and buried within a handful of dead ends and other useless folders, he finally found something.

It definitely wasn't what he expected, however.

Surveillance videos.

Specifically, surveillance videos of his room in the house and Brain's room too, complete with every conversation they'd had recorded for anyone's listening pleasure. Brain's research, Brendan's queries about Laura… all of it was there…

There had been cameras in the mirrors and paintings in their rooms.

Eames had been _spying on them_.

Rage bubbled up inside of Brendan, the fresh wound of betrayal slicing ever deeper. Brendan slammed the top of the laptop closed and picked it up, lifting it above his head just as Eames came in, carrying with him the fresh scent of a shower. "Whoa—what—"

Brendan threw the laptop against the wall with enough force to break it.

"Fucking hell!" Eames shouted, swinging an arm up to protect himself from any flying pieces out of sheer reflex.

"So, 'You aren't out to get me'? 'I need to stop treating you as the enemy'?" Brendan barked, throwing Eames's words from that afternoon in front of the house back at him. "You son of a bitch. You've been _recording us_."

"N-now hold on," Eames said, holding up his hands in defense, shrinking back as Brendan stalked towards him. "Let me explain."

"Explain? You said you had no interest—there was no advantage to having us here. We didn't matter. We should trust you, and then you do this? Fuck you!" Brendan shoved him as hard as he could (which admittedly was not much considering his injuries) and threw himself through his own bedroom door.

Eames had followed after him, hastily answering, "It was a precautionary tactic. It was to protect Mal and the others. We didn't know if you were working with the enemy. We didn't know who you were at all, and we knew even less about your mate."

"Bullshit," Brendan said, peeling out of the sweats Eames had put him into and throwing them into Eames's face. He grabbed his jeans and pulled them on, yanking his thermal shirt over his head. He slid his feet into his shoes without untying them.

"Now, look here," Eames bellowed, growing agitated. "Mal didn't even want to reply to your email, but I convinced her that it would be fine because we could keep our eyes on you and make sure you didn't mean us any sort of harm! We were covering our arses. I don't see why it's perfectly all right for you to go snooping through our things and having your little informant digging up as much on us as he can get his mitts on, but if we do the same to you, suddenly we're the bad guys! You're being unreasonable!"

"You said so your damn self that I was nothing but a kid—sprog is how you put it, isn't it? I got involved in all of this mess by accident, and you're treating me like the untrustworthy one! You've been spying on me and claiming I should trust you? Why should I believe anything that comes out of your stupid mouth?"

"You didn't seem to find my mouth so offensive yesterday."

Brendan clocked him.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. Eames staggered backwards and then righted himself, wiping the blood out from under his nose with his middle finger. "This isn't even about distrust," Eames said darkly. "This is about your hang-ups. This is about that little blonde girl, about your fears, about your vulnerabilities being on those videos. You're so bloody afraid that someone might get inside that carefully constructed wall of yours. You think that because your ex jilted you that the whole world is out to fucking get you. Grow the fuck up."

"In case you hadn't noticed, the world currently is out to get me, and with those videos on your computer? Who are you planning on handing them over to? Or have you already?" Brendan spat back. "Am I just supposed to believe that Mal was in on it? How am I supposed to be sure you aren't working for Wells? How am I supposed to know you weren't working for him _the whole fucking time_?"

"I would _never_ work for that bastard!" Eames shouted, shoving Brendan hard enough that he hit the wall. "You're an idiot. You don't even deserve our help! All you give a shite about is that memory of your girl. You'd throw your closest mate under the bus if it would get her back, I can see it in your eyes… and you thought _we_ were the dangerous ones?"

Eames could have shot him and it would have hurt less. He looked at the ground, working his jaw, doing his best to pretend that there weren't tears in his eyes.

"Forget this," Brendan mumbled, grabbing the parka Eames had deposited on his bed the day before and then snagging his bag as well.

He knocked harshly on Brain's bedroom door. "Brain. Brain, come on, let's dust. We're out of here. Brain…?"

"He's not here," Eames offered, voice soft, subdued. He sounded defeated. "He saw you this afternoon all banged up, and he left. I don't know if he just went to get some air or if he's coming back."

"What did you do to him?" Brendan growled.

"I didn't do anything to him!"

"Fuck you. Where's he at?"

"I am telling you, I don't bloody know. He left earlier and he hasn't been back. That's it, that's all."

Brendan looked at his feet, shook his head. "Brain will make himself known. I'll deal with it then."

He turned on his heel and stomped down the steps. Eames didn't even attempt to stop him.

Mal was sitting at the table with Cobb, the two of them going over an architectural blueprint when he came down, and she lifted her lips from her coffee mug and said, "Oh, Arthur, you're awake. What are you doing?"

He didn't even slow his pace as he mumbled, "Leaving."

"You really shouldn't go out. You were running fever this morning," Mal said, getting to her feet and reaching out to touch his arm in an attempt to stop him. He jerked his arm away. "What's wrong…?" she asked, brow furrowing.

"Why don't you ask Mr. Eames?" Brendan muttered and promptly left the building without another word.

* * *

Brendan made it about four blocks before he realized he didn't really have anywhere to go. He was cold and his body was sore and admittedly he had probably overreacted a tiny bit.

No.

No, he had _not_ overreacted, he told himself. He'd been stupid to put any sort of faith in a single one of them. Eames had been filming him, filming Brain secretly for days and days and then had the gall to tell Brendan off for it. That was how Brendan saw things, and that was the way they were. His head hurt too much when he tried to think on it any more than that. That bastard who had attacked had really done a number on his head.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and paused, remembering how he'd slipped the red loaded die, the totem, into the pocket of the sweats he'd thrown into Eames's face. It was still back at the house, forgotten.

Fuck it, who needed that nonsense? He could find his own totem…

…though his hurt feelings certainly did conflict with the fact that Eames had given it to him so that he wouldn't get lost…

Brendan needed to clear the cotton out of his head and think on all of this rationally, but standing around in the cold wasn't going to do anything. It also didn't help that he hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday when he'd nibbled on half of a scone in the café when he'd reunited with Laura.

That reminded him…

He dug in his pocket until he found the crumpled sheet of paper with her address scrawled across it.

Brendan did have somewhere he could go, but it was a risky move and possibly a horrible mistake. Laura had already fucked him over before, and her barber about being trustworthy was the same con she'd played before. Her doe eyes made her seem so innocent and honest, but he just knew he couldn't trust her. She was a spider just waiting for him to get entangled in her web again, and to walk right into it would be foolish. Even if she meant it this time, it was hard to think of an advantage to it when he had to tie up an eye to keep tabs on her.

…but he didn't have just a whole lot of options available. His head was spinning a little, and he couldn't stop shivering. He was too damned stubborn to just go back to Mal's with his tail tucked between his legs, and he thought maybe it would just be best to get all of this business taken care of so he could go home to San Clemente. Laura had given up her notebook and her gun without complaint, and that gun had saved his life.

Brendan thought that maybe it was time he turned the tables on Laura and played her game. He could use her just like she had used him, get her to trust in him and cut her loose if or when it was necessary. He'd gotten quite a bit out of her already, but he was sure she could tell him more. Maybe she could tell him if Eames really was a part of their gang. If he knew Eames really was innocent in all this, it certainly would give him some peace of mind. Hearing it from Eames's mouth wouldn't be enough; it would need to be proven to him. He didn't know who to trust anymore, so the best option available was to go to one he could get answers from.

Brendan didn't have any money left, so he ended up pickpocketing a passer-by to purchase his ticket back across the water to London. It wasn't the most courageous thing he'd ever done, but he left the rest of the wallet with lost and found once he arrived, having only taken the cash.

By then it was after nine, the sun having long gone down. He moved quickly and quietly through the streets. He appreciated that the darkness helped to mask the bruises on his face, making it easier to ask for directions.

He didn't reach her apartment until after ten, and by then his legs could barely carry him. The building was a small, three-story place decked out in brown brick and white windows. He took the steps up to the black front door and knocked three times. It took several minutes, agonizing ones where Brendan very seriously thought about passing out. His head was pounding, his stomach gnawing at his insides out of hunger. He coughed roughly into his shoulder and then looked up when the door swung open, revealing Laura in pajamas and an unzipped black hooded jacket.

Laura looked a bit stunned to see him but wordlessly stepped aside to allow him in the building. She led him up the stairs to her apartment and waited until he was inside before saying anything.

"Someone did quite a number on you."

Brendan observed the small flat—the round glass table by the window, the old blue couch, the mostly empty bookshelf, the half-finished mug of tea on the coffee table and the television playing the news at a low volume. The kitchen was tiny but had all of the necessary appliances. He could only see a sliver of the bedroom through the cracked door.

"One of your guys," Brendan said distantly. "You got anything to eat?"

She blinked, wrapping her arms around herself. "I think I've got a box of macaroni and cheese. Should only take fifteen minutes to make."

"That's fine," Brendan mumbled, sitting down on the couch and shedding his jacket. He was still shivering a bit but at the same time felt too warm. He figured he was probably running fever.

Laura could be heard clanking about in the kitchen as she asked, "So, what brings you here?"

"Figured I'd give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of my trust. I need the wire on some people."

"Is that all, or are you just not admitting to needing a place to go?" she asked.

His lips thinned. He didn't like being so transparent.

"Anyway, I'll do what I can to help you, but it seems to me like the best thing for you right now is a meal and a place to lie down. You look like hell." She appeared in the archway of the kitchen, leaning her hip against it while she waited for the noodles to cook. "So what happened?"

"Like I said, one of your guys came down on me after I left you… Big guy, squashed nose, maybe Dutch, German, something…"

"I told you to scram while you had the chance," she said with a shrug, but then it dawned on her. "Are you talking about Dietrich? 'Found dead in an alley' Dietrich?"

"That's probably him," Brendan said blandly.

"You… you offed him. You shot him with the gat you took from me, didn't you?"

"He wasn't really giving me much of a choice, what with the way he was beating me with a pipe and strangling the daylights out of me." He had said it casually, but he still couldn't help but shift uncomfortably at the memory.

The surprise wore off, and she shrugged. "He was far off the track. Honestly, there would have been no stopping him if you hadn't shot him. He was a bit of an ass anyway, always groping me whenever he was in town and I dropped off shipments. I'm kind of glad he's gone. Are you okay?"

"I've been better."

A corner of her mouth turned up and she went back into the kitchen to stir the noodles. Brendan sat back, staring at the television but not really watching it. His head was still hurting, but at least he was out of the wind. He was fighting the urge to fall asleep to the lulling sound of the television, knowing that sleeping here wouldn't be a wise decision.

He just had to eat. If he ate he'd be more lucid.

He hadn't even realized that his eyes had fallen closed, that there was a hand sliding through his curls gently. _Emily_ , his brain supplied first, then, oddly enough, _Eames_.

"You should eat first," Laura said softly, "and take some medicine. You're burning up."

"Yeah… yeah, I'm… I'm fine…"

Even he didn't believe that.


	14. Chapter 14

**FOURTEEN**

Under normal circumstances, Brendan probably would have been apprehensive about eating something Laura prepared for him. His stomach wasn't going to allow him to be suspicious, however, so he scooped heaping mouthfuls of macaroni and cheese onto his fork and swallowed them in record time. Laura lit up a cigarette in the meantime, cradling it between her delicate fingers. Brendan couldn't help but remember how cold her fingers were, not like Eames's at all.

He almost choked, smacking his chest until the food went down properly, coughing a bit. He didn't know why he was thinking of Eames's hands of all things. To cover his embarrassment, he said, "I'm not really in the mood to mince words, so I'm just going to come out and ask. Do you know or associate with an Eames in your group?"

"Eames…?" Laura queried, raising an eyebrow.

"Young guy, ex-military, English."

"I've only been in London for a couple of weeks, but I've never met anyone named Eames. Johnny used to train military guys, but I'm sure you're already well aware of that. I can't say this Eames person doesn't know him."

" _I would never work for that bastard!"_

Eames had said that… Brendan had no doubt that they knew each other, but if Laura was being truthful, then it didn't seem likely that Eames was part of their group. Laura had no reason to lie (she may be a harpy, but she wouldn't lie unless it benefited her somehow), and Eames's anger over the suggestion seemed genuine.

"Well," Brendan said unsurely, "maybe he didn't go by Eames. He's got buzzed hair, dark blue eyes, uh… a prominent mouth."

He hoped she didn't notice his blush as he said it.

She shrugged. "Doesn't sound like anyone I know…" she trailed off as her brow furrowed. "Actually, I have seen someone kind of like that, but not at any of the places where Johnny meets up with the boys. I saw a picture on a computer… This guy working with Mal Miles against us. I'm assuming that's where you met this Eames, so it's probably him."

Eames's only loyalty was to Mal. Brendan wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

"Yeah!" Laura said, smacking her fist onto her hand. "He was an ex-soldier gone forger in the mind crime community that got picked up by Miles and his daughter a couple of months ago. Apparently he was out for blood—Johnny's blood specifically. His friend died due to complications of the new experimental somnacin mixture, or something."

Brendan's brow furrowed. "Wh… what?" he asked, wondering if he'd misunderstood. "I was told they were trying to fight off mind crime, tear down the operation. What's this about experimental somnacin?"

Laura stubbed out her cigarette in the ash tray on the table, shaking her head. "Mal and a lot of her friends have been involved in mind crime off and on for a while now. Ever since it was outlawed to use the PASIV device, mind crime has run rampant, and while she may have done more jobs that were for the greater good, they were still illegal as any other. As far as I know, no one had any concern as to what Johnny was up to until his new somnacin mixture started getting around. It's the same stuff he used when he worked for the military, and it can cause some pretty nasty side effects depending on the person. That's what they're out to stop."

Brendan's fists clenched on his knees.

"I take it that they lied to you," Laura said.

"Yeah. They did."

"Maybe they thought that the less details you knew, the better. I would have thought you'd have made the connection though, considering the whole reason they went after you was because a stash of that somnacin went missing from the Pin's house on the night of the war. It didn't show up on any government or police records, so they didn't get their mitts on it, and considering you were the only one who got out of there alive, they figured it had to be you."

"So they put a bullet in my leg but they smuggle you away safely."

Laura sighed. "I didn't take the somnacin shipment. Believe what you want, but I didn't. This was a lot bigger than a brick, Brendan. There's no way I could have sneaked it by the Pin without his notice. I couldn't exactly hide a briefcase full of it in my purse. They checked me out and all over, I guarantee you. It wasn't me. I told them it wasn't you either, but they didn't believe me."

"So if I didn't take it, and you didn't take it, then who did?"

"I don't know. We're still trying to figure that out. Wells wants you taken down because you stole one of his PASIV devices, wants whoever is around to make sure you bleed and bring you in. Even though you didn't take it, they think you had something to do with it."

"So they want to dig in my head until they find whatever they can from me, and then they're going to toss me in a ditch and fill me with daylight, is that it?"

"Something like that. Dietrich might have gotten a little ahead of himself when he tried to off you, but he's always been on the lower rungs. He probably doesn't even know that Wells wants you in his hands alive, at least for a little while… That isn't to say he wouldn't be content if you were comatose."

Brendan scrubbed his hands over his face, exhaling. He really shouldn't have been surprised that they had lied, and he really wasn't… He'd just sort of… hoped…

"Why is this somnacin causing problems? Why are they trying to stop it from being produced?"

"Wells is the only one who knows the recipe," Laura said. "It produces some pretty incredible results. The dreams are as vivid as reality, and your control over the dreamscape is practically perfect. There's no need for militarization of the subconscious on this junk. You can trap projections in walled fortresses with a blink. They don't stand a chance against you… but of course it's one of those things that's too good to be true because it always is. There are some pretty intense side effects when it comes to dreaming that well, mainly that when you wake up you can't tell the difference. Soldiers were pulling the dutch act one after another after another, just dropping like flies, and those who didn't were desperate to go back under, to go deeper, to stay there longer and longer. It's a power trip. Some people like the chance to play god and don't exactly want to give it up when it's over. It's dangerous. I don't like it."

"Then why did you deliver it to them?"

"I didn't know what it was doing. If any of Johnny's boys had a job in the area, he'd send a shipment to the Pin, who'd have me take it to them. He has dealers all over the world to handle it so it's harder to track down. The Pin was one of those. I knew it was somnacin, but I didn't know it was a special brand, didn't know about the side effects. It wasn't until I came here that I realized just what was going on."

"And you want to stop it as much as Mal does."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do have some morals."

Brendan didn't think he could agree with that, but she'd made him dinner so the least he could do was not send a biting comment her way for once. He was too tired to argue semantics right now anyway.

It seemed to lay out before him fairly cleanly. Mal and her band of misfits had lied to him (though he didn't know why), but they were still on the side of the greater good, at least as far as Brendan could tell. Wells was an asshole with a lot of power that needed to be knocked down a few pegs if not off of his pedestal altogether. Who had stolen the somnacin from the Pin's house was unknown still, but Brendan was sure there'd be a show of hands before long. He still wasn't entirely convinced Laura had nothing to do with it. It didn't really mean that much to him to find out.

He had also come to realize that this was a lot bigger than himself now. If Wells refused to acknowledge that this somnacin mixture was killing people, or more likely refused to care, then he needed to be stopped. Brendan had never really been a justice-seeking type of guy unless it was his own personal justice, but maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop thinking only of himself.

Brain had reminded him that night after he'd found Laura on the security camera feed that lives and human connections all had value. The innocent subjects that Wells had tested his concoction on, the soldiers who had thrown themselves off of buildings or put bullets in their heads, all of the people who suffered the overwhelming loss when these people were gone… Someone needed to stand up for them. Brendan had found justice for Emily. The ones left behind in the wake of these deaths needed that feeling. They'd never be able to move forward otherwise.

…and Brendan was thinking he was finally about ready to move forward.

He wasn't looking forward to going back and apologizing to Eames for his hissy fit, but he wasn't too prideful to manage it.

"There won't be another train running until morning," Laura said, running her fingers through his hair. "Do you want to sleep here? I can get you some blankets."

Brendan had to fight not to lean into her touch. "I don't know if that's the best idea."

"You can't go back out there. You're sick."

"I'd rather be sick then wind up dead because I let my guard down around you."

"You ate food I cooked for you. Don't you think if I was going to kill you I'd have done it already?"

"Maybe it's not you I'm worried about."

She sighed, letting her fingers drift down the line of his jaw before she stood up. "I'll get you some blankets. You can choose to stay or choose to leave. I don't care."

Brendan adjusted his glasses, finished off the last of his dinner, and sat back. He didn't exactly have the money to rent out a hotel room, and going back out in the cold to wander until the trains started going again probably wasn't the best idea. He could probably ask Laura for money, but there was no guarantee those bills wouldn't be marked. He couldn't quite decide what to do.

It turned out that he didn't have to because a moment later Laura returned without the blankets, ashen. She made a hurried motion with her hand to tell him to come with her.

Brendan looked up at her. He said nothing but raised his eyebrows.

She nodded towards the window and mouthed the word _Johnny_.

He understood that instantly. Dropping to his knees, he crawled across the floor so that his head wouldn't make any appearances in the window. As soon as he was out of view, Laura grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet before pushing him hurriedly into the hall closet. "I don't know what the fuck he's doing here," she whispered, voice wobbling nervously. "I just saw the car pull up outside. Just… just stay here for a minute. I'll get them in the kitchen so no one can see or hear you from outside, and you make a clean sneak for my room and climb out the window. You can access the next building's roof from there. Get as far away as you can."

"I'm supposed to believe you didn't call them?"

She looked up at him, jaw set, and he could see it in her eyes.

Fear.

Brendan wasn't the only one in over his head with this guy.

He swallowed and nodded. "I'll… I'll do it. What you said. Just stay calm."

There was already someone pounding on the front door of her apartment. Apparently they had a key to the door in the lobby. It made sense, Brendan supposed, that they had given her this place to stay.

She shut the closet doors, scratched her hands through her hair to muss it up, and made it appear like she had been sleeping. He wondered if she'd picked up any acting techniques from Kara back in San Clemente.

He couldn't see what was going on, but he could hear the muffled sounds as she went to answer the door. Heavy feet moved into the apartment, deeper murmurs mingling with her own soft timbre.

Brendan tried to focus so he could hear what they were saying, but could only catch pieces.

"…is he?" Deep voice. English, maybe.

"Who?" Laura.

"You know who!"

"…ny… down…" A different male voice, slightly familiar.

Brendan could hear doors being slammed shut. He doubted Laura would be able to get them calmed down enough to take a seat and give him an opportunity to escape. He was a sitting duck.

"…Joh… stop, I don't… what you're talking…" Laura was saying. "…was asleep."

The voices grew closer as they moved closer to the hall, and Brendan felt the urge to shrink back behind the few clothes inside, even though they wouldn't hide him.

The deep voice said, "We saw him come in here, Laura. Stupidity and innocence doesn't suit you so why don't you just bring him out and save us the trouble?"

"Saw him? Saw… you've got guys watching my joint?"

"You've had a history for playing both sides of the board. You think we don't know about your relationship with Brendan Frye?"

"What relationship? We were never together!"

"Johnny, sir, it's… with all due respect, you don't have to blow up at her. J-just calm down and let her tell her side, yeah?"

_Oh_ , Brendan thought as he realized who the other voice was. Charlie Figaro, that forger who had helped capture him back in San Clemente. It was entirely possible Monroe or Haji were there too. Brendan could tell from the sounds that there was at least one other person there.

"Sod off, Charlie. I don't recall asking for your opinion on the situation."

"I j… look, Johnny, I just don't understand why we're still chasing Frye down. I mean, Monroe and Haji and I searched his head already and didn't find anything. He didn't take the somnacin. He may have snagged that PASIV device, but we've got more of them, so I don't—"

"He's not fucking innocent. You're just bad at your jobs."

"And if he _is_ innocent?" Laura asked. "This isn't about the somnacin at all. You took the theft of that PASIV personally—"

Brendan didn't see her hit the wall, but he heard her yelp when John hit her, felt the vibration through the door.

"Son of a bitch!" Laura hissed, seeming to be referring to the pain rather than the cause.

"Ah—ah—sir, I really think that was harsh!" Charlie stammered. His volume was likely louder than he realized.

"Just because you're sweet on her doesn't mean she wasn't out of line," Johnny spat.

There was a sound of a scuffle, and then someone banged up against the door Brendan was hiding behind. Brendan couldn't help but flinch as he heard the person roll out of the way with a moan. Charlie.

…and then he heard Laura choke.

"Listen, sweetheart," Johnny said, his voice mockingly sweet. "We know you've hidden him here, and we'll find him. It won't even be difficult. What I want to know is why he's come to you, and why you're protecting him? Is it because you love him? Hmm?"

Laura gagged, legs kicking uselessly against the wall.

It didn't matter what Laura had done to him at that point. Brendan wasn't going to stand there and do nothing. His conscience would never let him.

Besides, they would find him either way.

He threw the closet door open, taking in the room in one quick sweep. Charlie Figaro and his feathered hat were on the floor by Brendan's ankle. Laura was pinned against the wall by the throat, her tiny frame lifted an inch off the floor by a bulk of a man in a long leather coat—John Wells, Brendan assumed. He was a little shorter than Brendan expected, but a lot more muscular, white, with ginger hair and a ruddy, freckled complexion. Brendan could tell without blinking that he had been a military man practically all his life, and that was if Brendan had known absolutely nothing else about him. Behind him were two other men. One of them was Haji, while the other was a young black man that was as tall and thin as Charlie was and really didn't look like he wanted to be involved in all of this mess.

Brendan jerked his gaze immediately back to Wells. "Put her down," he said firmly, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed.

"Or what?" Wells asked.

"Look, I'm the one you want. She had nothing to do with this, all right? She didn't even know I was here. Now, put her down."

Wells nodded towards Haji and the other boy, and they proceeded to grab Brendan, holding him still. Wells let go of Laura's neck, and she slide to the floor, coughing and wheezing. She looked up at Brendan, her fingers tenderly touching the bruised skin of her neck, and he could read it in her eyes. _What are you doing?_

He looked away from her, instead glaring at Wells. "I hear you've got it out for me," Brendan said. "I had to fly clear across the pond to avoid your guns."

"Ah, and yet, here you are."

"Here I am," Brendan agreed. His expression was more of a show of teeth than a smile. "So. Are you going to choke me like you did her? I should warn you, blue really isn't my color."

Brendan received a rather prompt punch to the face for that, but it wasn't anything he hadn't dealt with before. His split lip started to bleed again, blood dribbling down his chin.

"I'd been warned about the mouth on you," John said. "I'm very curious as to what you'll say next."

"I do believe a certain kingpin once asked me the same question."

"Did he?"

"Same question, same answer. Maybe I'll just sit here and bleed at you."

Wells rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Take him down to the car, keep him restrained, put him in the boot. Laura, Charlie, get your arses off of the floor. You're coming along as well." He paused, then added, "In fact, restrain her too. Throw her in the boot with him."

"I didn't do anything!" Laura shouted as Haji reluctantly grabbed her. Brendan knew he could probably take down the man holding him without much issue, but it was doubtful he wouldn't be able to handle the impending damage from everyone else. He would put money on John Wells having a gun stashed on his person. It was safe to assume that the others did as well. Running from bullets hadn't worked out so well for Brendan last time, and he wasn't about to attempt it again unless he felt confident he could get away. He needed to think of something and fast.

"Taking me home, Johnny? You should at least buy me dinner first, don't you think?" Brendan asked. Sassing Johnny wasn't going to cool down any tempers, but it would at least stall for a little bit of time. It would be a hell of a lot easier to think if his head didn't feel heavy and stuffed with cobwebs from the fever.

Still, even if his head was clear and he was completely lucid, things didn't look good. They were being cuffed and tied up, gagged and blindfolded, the works, and all Brendan's sarcastic comment had done was make John's face redden with rage. John's face cracked into an unsettling smile, and he grabbed Brendan sharply by the jaw. "It's going to be a lot of fun to break you, mate," he assured.

Brendan was prepared to come up with another smart ass remark, but before he could, metal clanged against his head, blacking out his vision and ringing in his ears as pain blossomed through the fog in his head. He heard Laura call out his name in a panic, but her voice was far, far away.

_Well, shit_ , he thought.

It was the last thing he recalled before sliding into the dark, dreamless unconsciousness he was starting to grow accustomed to.


	15. Chapter 15

**FIFTEEN**

When Brendan came to, it was to find himself curled up in a terribly small compartment. It was too dark to see, but there was the familiar sound of street rushing beneath him that reminded him he was in the trunk of the car. They hit a pot hole, causing him to bounce a little, banging his already aching head against the floor of the trunk, and he hissed, wishing he knew where they were going. His ears were still ringing from the frying pan he'd taken to the skull by another member of John's gang that he hadn't been aware of, but he was still aware enough to know he wasn't alone. The back of his tied hands was touching the warm skin of what he presumed was Laura. She was quiet, probably unconscious though he couldn't be sure. He certainly hoped they'd at least been a little more graceful at knocking her out than with the kitchen décor.

Brendan tested his bonds but found his movements were sluggish to nonexistent. He couldn't be positive, but he was pretty sure he'd been drugged so that he couldn't untie himself, kick out the taillights and make an attempt to escape.

Shit.

He did manage to maneuver the gag out from his mouth at least, but the rest of his binds weren't going anywhere anytime soon.

"L…Lau…" he croaked. "…Lau…ra…"

It took a minute or two, but she seemed to stir. It took a couple more minutes before she could talk however, clumsily maneuvering the gag from her mouth with a few weak squirms. She'd been drugged too. So much for having her untie him.

"Are you okay…?" she asked.

Brendan had no idea, so he didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "What happened?"

"Caleb conked you with a frying pan."

"Yeah, ah… I remember that part."

"Drugged you. Drugged me. Not sure with what. Probably some kind of sedative. Now they're probably taking us back to Johnny's headquarters. I don't know what they intend to do, but I doubt it'll be good." Her speech was sluggish and slurred in a way that she couldn't possibly fake. He doubted she'd be of any use to him anytime soon.

"Well, we know one thing," Brendan coughed, tasting blood in his mouth again. "They're not going to kill us, not yet anyway. Wells probably thinks I have some sort of agenda, probably thinks you're in on it. He's going to try and dig the truth out of us."

"Well, that's good news."

"It's nice to see your sarcasm is still intact, angel."

"I'd say it's nice to see your smart ass mouth was still intact, but it's sort of the reason you took a pan to the face."

Brendan snorted, unable to help but give her credit. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I didn't know there was another guy."

"Which is why you should've stayed put."

"They were right there, Laura. They would've found me. I wasn't just going to stand in there and listen to him strangle you."

Laura was quiet for a moment. Then, she said, "…but why? I… I thought you hated me."

Brendan sighed, closing his eyes against the pain in his skull, even though it was just as dark. "I've still got my problems with you… You did some nasty things, some things you should pay for, but… but if I were to let you die, would that make me any better than you? It wouldn't have done any good anyway… You'd just be another body on my name."

"I would think it wouldn't matter to you. I'm… I'm the reason Emily is…"

"Yeah, well… it's just as much my fault, isn't it?"

Laura went silent.

After a couple of minutes, she said, "Do you really believe that?"

"You said it yourself," Brendan said distantly. "It could only have been me, and it's what you used to get her killed, isn't it? If she hadn't been like that, Tug wouldn't have had a reason to get so hot and hit her. You wouldn't have been able to come up with that little plan of yours. You probably would have had someone else take the hit. It could have changed everything."

"Isn't it a little late to dwell on 'what if's?"

Brendan didn't answer.

"This… this has been eating you up inside," she said. "You… feel guilt for it. You don't even blame me anymore, do you? You only blame yourself."

"I was supposed to protect her. I didn't. I didn't keep her safe."

Laura might have said more, but the car came to a slow halt. Both of them fell silent, the small space growing tense with what might be coming. Brendan had a feeling Laura was more well-versed on what could take place, but his own imagination was running wild with gruesome possibilities.

He knew one thing for sure. If he didn't get away from them, they were going to kill him. Either they would get the information they wanted or they'd find he didn't have it, but he wasn't going to walk out of there alive unless he escaped… and even if he did manage an escape, that certainly didn't mean he was safe. He needed help—Laura was unreliable at best but she was his only option. It was possible he might be able to convince a couple of Johnny's goons to give him a hand but they weren't very trustworthy partners either. Contacting Brain would be his best shot, but the chances of getting in touch with him were slim at best. Brendan had to think, plan, do _something_. _Anything_ at this point would be good.

The trunk opened, and he flinched against the light.

He was grabbed and hauled out of the trunk and practically tossed to the group of thugs waiting underneath the street light. His legs wouldn't even hold him up with the drug in his system even if his ankles hadn't been tied together. He hissed out a curse just before they shoved the gag back into his mouth and dragged him to the warehouse waiting nearby. He tried his best to take in his surroundings, even though his head was pounding and vision swimming. The river wasn't far. He could sort of see it in the distance, could see lights from the main part of the city. He thought he caught a glimpse of something on the corner of the building looking down at him, but that might have all been in his head. The warehouse door was wide and loud. There'd be no getting out of it without someone noticing. An air vent opening or two might have been an option, but he'd have to get into them first and find his way out before they turned the heat up on him.

As he was lugged inside, he was disappointed to see that there weren't any getaway vehicles in sight. There were also far more people around than he would have liked, PASIV devices set up on tables. Temporary plaster walls had been thrown up to make rooms. The place was lit by harsh fluorescents hanging from the ceiling and smelled of sweat and chemicals. He was taken to one of the rooms in the back, tossed onto one of the two old beds inside. Other than the beds, a few stacked chairs, and a table, there wasn't anything else to look at. He was untied which was a relief on his rope-burned wrists, but it only lasted long enough for them to handcuff him to the bedframe. He had a feeling that when the sedative wore off, his shoulders would be aching.

If he could get a nail or something, he would probably be able pick the lock on the cuffs, but for the moment he was stuck.

Brendan was beginning to think there was no escaping this time. He really had bitten off more than he could chew.

Laura was dragged in a couple of minutes later and shoved onto the bed on the opposite wall and chained similarly. She kept her head tilted upwards, glaring at Monroe who had brought her in. When he looked towards Brendan, he asked, "How's your leg?"

"Fuck you," Brendan sneered.

"Not as bad as the rest of you then, I'd imagine."

"You're pretty smug for a guy whose boss had to fix your mistake," Brendan said with a slight smirk. "How are your testicles by the way? I recall I gave them a pretty swift kick."

"Sass all you want," Monroe said. He seemed to be attempting to hide his anger behind a smile, but the redness in his face gave him away. "We're going to find out where you stashed the somnacin this time."

"Your buddy Charlie didn't think I had it before. What makes you think you'll find anything now?"

"You stole that PASIV for a reason."

"I really didn't," Brendan snorted, shaking his head. "I took it so you wouldn't have it. I didn't even know what it was. I thought it might serve my interests if you came breaking down my door with your noses in the air trying to sniff me out."

"Bullshit."

"He didn't take it," Laura piped up.

"Oh? And why should I believe you?"

"Because he wasn't at my apartment for some midnight rendezvous," Laura said with a roll of her eyes. "I don't know why all you men assume that a woman is pitching woo with every gink she speaks to, but he and I aren't lovers. He can't even stand me. Ask him yourself. He wasn't there to conspire with me. As far as I know, he was there to kill me. Brendan here was involved with a girl I sent to die. Emily Kostitch?" She paused to glance at Brendan and then looked back into Monroe's face. "Look it up. You'll see for yourself. Someone had to be pinned so I could get away with the brick. Small time game compared to what you boys do, I know, but a personal vendetta is a personal vendetta."

"He wants revenge on you for killing his girlfriend," Monroe said skeptically.

"High school's a very vengeful time, especially for social outcasts. Besides, I played him on top of it all, made him think I gave a damn about him, let him fall right into my trap. In the end, he escaped it, but I still sent him to the slaughterhouse… or did you forget how Johnny doesn't trust me because of my ability to manipulate both sides?"

"And why exactly would you be telling me this?"

"Because I didn't do anything, and I want out of these chains. I'm not about to go down for him. He was my pawn in the past, but I've got no use for him now. Take it to Johnny, tell him I'm not chiseling him and get me out of here."

"And him?"

Laura looked over at Brendan, met his gaze. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, but then, he never could. Still, he couldn't help but think he'd been conned.

"Do whatever you're going to do," she said, and her voice was so cold the room dropped two degrees. "I don't see why it's any of my business now."

"Bitch," Brendan hissed.

"It's just business," Laura said as Monroe hesitantly untied her, keeping his pistol trained on her. She sauntered across the room when she was free, sliding her hand through his hair before leaning down to kiss him on the cheek.

No.

Wait…

"I'll come back," she whispered quickly, so soft that Brendan barely heard her.

He didn't know what that meant. Would she be back to save him… or would she be back to destroy him? It was a tossup, and given past experience and the look on her face, he was inclined to lean towards the latter.

Still, why say it so softly if it was meant as a threat?

"You're coming with me," Monroe said to Laura. "Let's go talk to Johnny and see if he's willing to be as forgiving as I am."

"I'm sure I can convince him. A little show of loyalty, an explanation… It's all a bit of a misunderstanding."

She gave Brendan one last glance before disappearing behind the door, leaving him alone.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep at some point because when he opened his eyes, he was in a different place. The walls were painted a cool mint green, and the bed was surrounded by white railing. Machines whirred and beeped next to him, and sunshine spilled in through the bay window. The smell of springtime breezed in with it.

Brendan turned his head to find a man standing next to his bed in a white lab coat. He was older, black, bald, with warm brown eyes and half-moon glasses.

Brendan squinted at him, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. "Where am I?"

"The hospital," the man in the coat announced. "I'm your doctor. How are you feeling?"

"…fuzzy-headed… What happened?"

"The Met stormed the warehouse where you were being held prisoner and rescued you. The government is dealing with those responsible."

"Oh…"

"What is it that they wanted from you?"

Brendan scrubbed his hands over his face again. "Why does that matter?"

"The authorities are just trying to understand what happened."

"Oh… Okay…" Brendan said hesitantly. Something didn't feel right. "Am I going to be okay?"

"Seems so. You've got a bit of a concussion, some infection in your lungs. You might walk out of here with a few scars, but you'll walk out of here."

"Is… is Brain here? My friends… Is anyone here? Can I talk to them?"

"We can bring you a phone if you like. We weren't exactly sure who to contact."

Brendan blinked a few times, tugging at the collar of his hospital gown. "Y… yeah, fine… Is it hot in here?"

"I'll have a nurse turn down the temperature."

The doctor moved out of the room. Brendan waited a moment before pulling his IV line free and throwing his legs over the side of the bed. His head swam as he stood, fists gripping the railing as he tried not to collapse. His legs were still wobbly from the sedative, he reasoned—

…but that didn't make any sense. It should have been out of his system by now. It was dark when he was captured, and it was daytime now.

It was also springtime.

As the doctor returned to the room, carrying a phone, he gave pause. Brendan stared at him wide eyed, realizing he could see him entirely clearly even though he wasn't wearing his glasses.

"This is a dream," Brendan said.

The doctor was quiet for a moment.

"So, are you the extractor? Or are you just a distraction while you look for answers inside my head?" Brendan asked, taking a step back.

"What are you talking about?" the doctor asked. "Sir, please get back into bed."

"Did you think I was just going to lie dormy while you poked around in my brain for answers? You wanted me to make that call so you could find out who I was working with, so you could find out where they were. You knew my projections of them would come here!"

"You're delirious."

"Am I?" Brendan spat. "You're Charlie, aren't you? The forger! Don't pretend you're not. Doctors don't ask questions for the authorities, and they sure as hell aren't so blasé when their patient is fuzzy-headed. You would have asked my name because I didn't have any I.D. on me. You would have found out as much about me as you could… but you're not worried about me. You're just holding me here, trying to keep me from being suspicious."

The doctor's eyes widened a little.

Brendan smirked. "Forging's all in the little details."

The doctor sighed, his forgery dispersing in a blink. It was indeed Charlie.

"You're not very good at this," Brendan said. "No wonder you never made it to the big time."

"Please don't fight us. Once Johnny sees that you know from nothing, he'll let you go."

"Yeah, he'll let me go off the edge of a bridge with cinder blocks tied to my feet. Don't even try to convince me for a second that he isn't going to chill me off as soon as he's got his answers. You're not that stupid, and I outsmarted you and your buddies once before so don't for a second think _I'm_ that stupid."

Charlie sagged. "Fine. Yeah, I know, but… It's not like I've got any choice in the matter here, you know? You think I want this? Pals of mine have died. Johnny's got his thumb down on all of us and a lot of loyal guys to back him up."

Brendan worked his jaw, thinking. "Keep me alive, and I'll get you out."

"Uh, no offense, but you're more behind the eight ball than I am. I don't know if you're really in the position to be making deals—"

"A deal's a deal. It doesn't cost you anything if it doesn't work out."

"I'm not the only one that wants out."

"Bring whoever you're going to bring, but if they turn out to be grifters and sell you down the river, that's none of my business. Help me, and I'll help you."

"Why would you do that?"

"It's not personal. I don't know your story, and frankly I don't really care, but I need people on the in if I'm going to get out. As long as you don't gum it all up, I think we can all get what we want here."

"Johnny will come after us."

Brendan shifted awkwardly. "Yeah… I'm still working on that part. I'll take care of it somehow. Give me some time. Make sure you or one of your guys comes to my room… or Laura."

"What are you going to do in the meantime?"

"Well. Right now I'm going to kill myself."

"What?"

Brendan dove out the window of the hospital and only just managed to register the wind brushing against his cheekbones before he collided with the hard pavement below.

* * *

He jolted awake, yanking against his chains uselessly. His struggle was brought to a stop almost as soon as it started because one of the few in the room with him punched him. It stung in his jaw, but it wasn't the hardest hit Brendan had ever endured.

"You're going to have to do better than that," Brendan said, looking directly at Charlie, waiting for confirmation that he remembered what they'd discussed.

Charlie swallowed, blinked once.

"Your architect is pathetic," Brendan said, smiling cheekily. "Come on. Springtime? Was that supposed to put me at ease? Make me think of California? Maybe you should let me build the mazes. Of course, my subconscious isn't too friendly when it knows the layouts. Either way, you had the advantage of catching me off guard before. I wonder if you'll be able to manage that again? Hate to say it, but probably not." Well, that took the heat off of Charlie's forge at least. It should have been a show of good faith.

The anger that flooded over the architect, a man Brendan had never seen before—older, Asian, thick glasses, bulky—was impressive. Brendan honestly expected him to attack, but the man had more self-control than he'd given him credit for. It didn't exactly help that the young black man who had assisted in capturing Brendan—probably the extractor—looked like he was fighting off the urge to laugh. Now that Brendan got a good look at the kid, he realized that he couldn't be any older than Eames. The way his hair was shaved, he was inclined to believe this kid had been in the military too.

"Did you get anything?" the Asian man growled, turning his eyes on the extractor who promptly sobered his expression.

"No information. I wasn't down there long enough. I did see some projections though. I saw… Eames."

Charlie looked a bit like he'd be ill just because of that statement. Apparently Eames and Johnny weren't on friendly terms, though Brendan could have guessed that from how Eames responded to John's name.

"How do you know Eames?" the architect asked, voice soft but severe.

"Which one's Eames?" Brendan asked.

"Don't play stupid!"

"Is he that guy with the mouth? Yeah, had a fling with him a couple of days ago. Really nice hotel room. He's a little handsy, and he talks too much. Good kisser though."

"He is Eames's type," the extractor said. His accent was distinctly English. He knew who Eames was—maybe they were friends at one time. It was information Brendan filed away as possibly useful.

"I can close my eyes if you want to go again," Brendan piped up. "Think you could bring me something to eat first though? I'm starved, and my thoughts might get a little fuzzy if I don't at least have a granola bar or something."

That earned him another smack to the face before the architect stormed out.

"Go get him something to eat, Russell," Charlie said. "I'll pack things up here."

Russell shrugged a shoulder. "Be quick or Johnny will come after you. He's already brassed off at you and Monroe and Haji for having to do all this work, and I'm not going to stand in his line of fire if I don't have to."

"Yeah, I get it," Charlie said shortly. "Don't remind me, okay?"

"All right," Russell said, smirking a little. "I'll throw something together."

As soon as Russell was gone, Charlie started winding up the PASIV lines, mouth pressed into a thin line. "I feel like you're going to get me knocked off, you know?" he said.

"You're probably as good as dead if you keep working for him anyway," Brendan said.

"Yeah, well, how about you try and play the part of good prisoner until I can give Russ the rap over your nearly-nonexistent, crazy-pants plan, all right? Try not to be so belligerent."

"Belligerence makes people angry, which makes them sloppy. I'm buying time," Brendan said. "I know what I'm doing. Relax."

"The prisoner chained to the bed is telling _me_ to relax."

"Who has the keys to these chains?"

"Monroe did last I checked. Johnny might have them now, but I don't know. Monroe's the boss man's most loyal dog so Johnny might at least trust him with those. I'll have to check."

"Check," Brendan nodded, "and glaum them if you get the chance."

"I think you're putting more faith in me than I deserve."

"You were a pickpocket."

"My talents as a pickpocket are a bit exaggerated. I can handle myself with ordinary folks, but everyone here is wise to that kind of stuff."

"Do what you can. It might take some time, but time's all I've got right now. I'll hold them off as long as I can."

"They already know you've met up with Eames."

"Yeah, about that… What's the wire on Eames? Seems like you guys have got issues."

"I don't. Actually, I've never met the guy. Russ knew him in the military. They were in the same unit, soldiers being trained on the PASIV. They were good friends as far as I know, but when Johnny decided to take dreamshare into his own hands and turn it into a business, they were separated. Johnny… how can I say this delicately… 'drafted' a good amount of the soldiers under him into his service. He had all of their information after all, knew where their families lived. Eames and this other guy Antony ran before Johnny could get his mitts on them though. They didn't have anyone to threaten because all they had was each other, you know? The somnacin had already done a number on Antony's head though, and last I heard he filled himself with daylight. Eames went on this revenge kick, killed some deserving assholes, then dropped off the map. Now, it's going to get around that Eames is in on all this. Now, I need you to tell me… is he?"

Brendan blinked, averting his gaze for a moment. "I don't really know how to answer. Eames has got his own agenda, just like I do. That's all I know."

Charlie nodded. "Okay."

Brendan sighed, closing his eyes. The light was giving him a migraine.

"Just try and stay with me, all right?" Charlie said softly. "That junk they've got in the PASIV can cause some pretty severe side effects for the dreamer if used in large quantities."

"Laura already told me."

"I'm just warning you."

Brendan smiled a little. "You remind me of my friend Brain."

"I sure as hell hope that's a compliment."

Charlie hurried out with the PASIV. Brendan let out a long breath and mentally crossed his fingers.

If he could work things out, he might just get out of here alive.


	16. Chapter 16

**SIXTEEN**

Brendan was beginning to realize that anger didn't make these goons as sloppy as he expected. The dreams they slipped him into now mirrored the room they were holding him hostage in entirely, right down to the weight of the chains on his wrists. Since they couldn't beat him with tact, the various teams that came into his head would use a more direct approach.

Breaking his fingers.

Bashing in his skull.

Burning him with hot pokers.

Putting a knife just deeply enough into an organ to cause him to slowly bleed out.

It would have been nearly impossible to endure even if he'd been able to tell the difference between dream and reality, been able to know if he'd lost those fingers forever, if he was paraplegic, blind, mutilated for life. Without a totem he had no way to tell if when he died he would wake up again. More often than not, he would be shivering when he woke up, sweat pouring down his face and dampening his clothes. A couple of times he vomited over the edge of the bed.

He wouldn't cry though. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

His only reprieve was when Charlie or Russell brought him food. That always assured him that it was reality.

"I probably would have told them by now," Russell admitted as he cleaned up the mess Brendan had made by the bed. "You're pretty tough."

"Yeah. Well. It's pretty funny how that projection that was killing me in dreams before won't come put me out of my misery now."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Charlie said a cute blonde girl smashed a brick into your face."

"That would be Emily," Brendan sighed, wishing he could wipe is brow with the back of his hand. "God… I have to think of something. I can't stay like this. I'm going to die like this."

"No offense, mate, but I'm not entirely sure why Charlie has so much faith in you to get us out of all this. We couldn't get out of it on our own, and we're at full health and strength. You're bloody chained to the bed looking like death warmed over, and Johnny's got all our names in his book. He'll have us killed, or worse, have all the people we care about killed for crossing him if he catches us, which he would. Look at you. I bet you can hardly stand."

"I can handle myself," Brendan breathed. "I've just got to keep my wits about me."

"Easier said than done, isn't it? Look, I don't think any of us would hold it against you if you spilled the beans."

Brendan snorted. "If I did that, they'd kill me for real."

Russell sighed, running a hand over his head. "Yeah, I guess you've got a point there. So, what are you going to do? Wait for a knight in shining armor to rescue you?"

"Please tell me you're not talking about Eames."

Russell smirked. "You really must not know Eames if you think he's any kind of valiant knight. He's an all right bloke but he's no hero. He's out for his own interests, doesn't much care about anyone else."

"I'm well aware," Brendan said, tugging at his chains as he rolled as close to the wall as he could, coming up with an idea. "I don't expect anything out of him, no. "

Brendan started scratching his fingernail against the wall, grateful he hadn't had time to trim them recently.

"So… I guess that means you and he weren't actually an item then."

Brendan paused in his scratching for a beat and then said, "No. We weren't. We aren't. We never will be. Why would you think what I was saying before was anything but bunk? I was just trying to rile him up."

Russell shrugged, tossing the dirty towel into the bucket he'd brought with him before getting to his feet. "Don't know. Like I said, you're his type."

"And what would that be? Sharp-eyed?"

"Dangerous."

Brendan's brow furrowed, and he turned to glance over his shoulder. "What do you mean? This Antony guy was…?"

"Antony was a good bloke, just like Eames, but he also had this devil-may-care attitude, a lot like you. He had laser point focus on whatever it was he was doing, and no one could stop him once he set his mind to it, even if people or he himself would get hurt in the end. The whole reason he got lost was because he threw his whole self into Project Somnacin, savvy?"

"Oh," Brendan said softly. "You're… you're telling me that he brought it on himself?"

"Don't know," Russell said again. "He had a theory, and he went chasing leads. When he couldn't find his way back, he offed himself. I'm not completely sure of the details, but before Antony croaked, he had these moments of lucidity. He told Eames that he knew Johnny was up to no good, that there was something wrong with the somnacin, but he had no proof. He eventually became the proof, I guess, but it didn't do him a lot of good now, did it?"

Brendan swallowed thickly. "No, it didn't."

It really did sort of sound like something he might do.

Brendan cleared his throat and said, "Get the keys as soon as you can. I'm going to try and work out the details."

Russell nodded. "I'll be back with your food in a tic. Try not to sick up again, okay? It's kind of disgusting."

Brendan went back to scratching the plaster of the wall with his fingernail until he'd made a small mark in the shape of an E. For Emily, or for Eames, he no longer knew. All he did know was that if he brushed his finger against it, he'd know it was reality.

Not bad for a makeshift totem, if he did say so himself. He just hoped no one else would catch it.

* * *

The torture was still relentless in dreams, but Brendan was managing to hold himself together a bit better now that he knew it wasn't real. It still hurt like hell, which was an understatement, since his mind still processed the pain, but knowing they hadn't just grown tired of him and decided to split him open from ribcage to stomach was enough to keep him hanging on, even when the phantom pains lingered for hours afterwards.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been stashed away in this warehouse since there were no windows and he'd been under more often than he'd been awake. It could have been days or only hours, but either way, it was too damned long. The chains were chafing his wrists, the bread they were feeding him to keep him alive was stale enough that he might as well have been eating cardboard (not that he'd been able to keep much down anyway), and no matter if it was reality or not the torture was doing a bit of a number on his mentality. He couldn't stop shivering even though it was warm, couldn't keep his thoughts focused for long.

If they could get the keys, he could get out of these chains, but that didn't mean he'd be getting out of the building. The air ducts seemed an unlikely escape, considering that if he could even get into them that didn't mean it would be a noiseless journey. He just needed to get everyone out of the building, then maybe find a back way out in the meantime. He didn't have long amounts of time with Charlie or Russell, so he only had a vague idea of the setup of the warehouse, but he did know there was a back exit. It was all he had to go on for the moment.

Johnny and his boys were getting fed up though, and that was a problem. Their torture methods were getting progressively more violent and creative—including, but not limited to, the pouring of acid, releasing flesh eating insects all over his body, and laying stones on top of him until they got so heavy that he couldn't breathe properly and suffocated. The agonizingly slower deaths made him all the more desperate to reach for that wall and see that the E was not there. Not real, not real, not real, he kept telling himself, but the pain itself was entirely so. It didn't help that the somnacin was starting to do a number on his head, making it hard for him to remember that he had even placed that E there, making it hard to remember why he was even there to start with. He was starting to think that these teams of men coming into his head were more there for entertainment than they were for information.

The worst part was when they discovered his little trick. Someone had noticed him rubbing his fingertips against the wall down below and had checked the spot when they awoke.

The next dream, and the next, and the next, the E was there, and he no longer had a way to differentiate between the real world and the dream world, and after having found that he'd duped them, his torturers had gotten all the less friendly. Now that his totem was gone, the torture was made real. There was no way to be sure if they were genuinely fed up or just trying to break him.

…and eventually…

He begged for his life, screaming as they carved their names into him, stomped on his chest, pissed in his wounds. They cut of his limbs with a bone saw and made him watch while they did it, laughing while he shrieked and sobbed and pleaded. There was no pride left in him at this point. For all he knew, this was the end of his life. The pain sure as hell was real enough.

The next time they woke, one of the men announced to another, "He's been working with Mal."

Brendan looked up at them in horror, finding his eyes were wet, breath leaving him raggedly as he choked on sobs. He'd always had a high breaking point. He was also pretty sure they'd just about found it. His defenses were breaking down, and they were getting hold of the information seeping through the cracks. His mental faculties weren't strong enough to build mazes anymore, his militarized projections growing too weak to fight off the intruders searching for answers.

Time was running out fast, and he still didn't have a solid plan. He was losing his mind, and he didn't have a solid _plan_.

A hand brushed against his bruised jawline as he whimpered and squirmed, trying to get out of his bonds. He turned towards the cool palm, feeling the thumb slide over his bottom lip. When his eyes opened, he instantly stilled. "Emily?"

Emily sat before him on the edge of his bed, her hand moving from his jaw to comb through his hair. She was cold to the touch though he was the one shivering. Her lips parted, and she whispered softly, "Brendan."

"A… a dream…?"

"Is it?"

"I don't… It has to be."

"Poor thing. I've never seen you look so blue," she said, leaning over to kiss his forehead. His eyelashes fluttered closed, but the kiss never touched, and when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

Thankfully, he wasn't by himself for long. Charlie came in with the food tray looking glum not two minutes later.

"Let me guess," Brendan croaked. "No keys."

"Are you kidding? Everyone's in a frenzy. They're packing up to head to Paris. They got Mal's location out of your head."

Brendan tried to sit up out of habit, but he just ended up jerking uselessly against his chains. "You've got to be kidding me. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. They're after her?"

"Uh, yeah," Charlie said as if Brendan was an idiot. He shook his head. "No—sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't take my frustrations out on you… You know, except for the fact that this is really, really, _really_ bad."

"Tell me the tale."

"All right, see, we've had this suspicion that Mal Miles was going to war with us for a while. Johnny knew Miles taught in Paris, kept his eye on him, but Miles never seemed to be involved. Mal had been spotted with one of his students, a Dominic-something, but as far as anyone could tell, he was either a play or just her boyfriend, I don't know. Either way, all of the blown operations, the stolen batches of Johnny's somnacin… we couldn't pin it on her, couldn't find out where she lived. Couldn't abduct Miles or Dominic because they were too well known. It'd be noticed, you know? You're a nobody here, so it was different, but—anyway, they're going to ambush Mal's place, go into her head, find out if she's stealing the somnacin and if so where she's stashing it. They think she was involved in the stash that went missing back stateside because you two were working together."

"They're going to kill her," Brendan breathed.

"Yeah, probably… and anyone else in the house that gets in their way, including Eames and your friend."

"Shit," Brendan hissed. He jerked his wrists uselessly. "Why won't they believe me? _Why won't they believe me_?!"

"You need to calm down," Emily said.

Brendan's eyes widened as he turned to see her sitting on the corner of the bed. She smiled at him, as warm and oddly solemn as she always had been, and then he blinked and she was gone.

A dream…? Or…

"Brendan? Brendan! Come on, I'm sort of hoping you have some sort of plan here. If Mal is the one, if they stop her, then there'll be no stopping Johnny ever. We'll never get out of here if we don't get out now."

"Well, either we need the keys or a pair of bolt cutters, and I'm sure you can guess which are less suspicious."

There was the sound of a woman clearing her throat. For a moment, Brendan thought Emily might have reappeared again, but when he looked towards the door he saw Laura instead.

"Your pickpocketing skills really have been grossly exaggerated," Laura said, tossing a jingling key ring Charlie's way. "Everyone's distracted, so it's now or never. Russell's bringing a van around back."

Charlie leaned over Brendan, hastily seeking out the proper key to undo his shackles. When he finally found one that fit in the lock, he let out a breath he probably didn't even know he'd been holding. "They're the real keys," he said, a smile coming across his face. "Thank God."

"God's got nothing to do with it, trust me," Laura said, moving in on the two of them, taking Brendan gently by the wrists as the cuffs were freed. "Can you move your arms?"

He tried to lower them to his sides, mouth falling open in agony as the blood started finding its way around again. He started to shake, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. "H-help—help me up," he grunted as he finally managed to get his arms down by his sides again.

"Your skin is on fire," Laura hissed. "You need to get to a hospital."

"We'll discuss it when we're clear, how about that?" Brendan groaned, blinking the spots out of his eyes.

"If it's even real," Emily said from her spot on the bed. "Right, Brendan? Why else would I be here?"

Brendan looked towards her, but she was gone. "Let's go," he mumbled, staggering onto his unstable feet. "Hurry."

"I don't know if hurrying is something you can do," Charlie said but promptly shut up when Brendan glared at him.

Brendan's feet could carry him, but just barely. Once he'd stood, he immediately started coughing and sputtering, nearly collapsing in a heap if it weren't for Laura and Charlie holding him up. He got his breath back after a minute or so and pushed forward, stumbling but not collapsing. The back door wasn't far which was something Brendan was so thankful for he could cry. It was already partially open, leading to a gently sloping ramp, and there was a van idling with Russell in the front seat.

"Get a move on," Russell hissed, clearly nervous. Brendan hazily wondered how far behind the rest of Johnny's guys were from finding out Brendan was gone and figuring out where he'd gotten off to. He was half-dragged to the van and tossed into the back. They didn't have time to be gentle. Laura climbed into the back with Brendan while Charlie threw himself into the passenger seat. The doors on the back of the van had barely been closed before the tires were kicking up gravel as they spun.

The floor of the van was cold and dusty, but Brendan didn't care. He rested his head against the metal, breathing in and out, in and out. "Where… where are we going…?" he asked, feeling rather than seeing himself be dragged over, his head being pillowed on a lap.

"Anywhere we can," Laura said softly. He could barely hear her over the rumble of the van.

"No… we can't… we can't just run… They're going to kill them… all of them… We've got to stop them."

"The four of us? With a couple of gats and an old rickety van? Brendan, you can barely walk. You've got a crazy fever, and you've been mumbling to yourself in that room for hours, so I'm not entirely convinced you're all here with us."

Brendan opened his eyes to look up at her, finding Emily sitting next to her. "Who's to say this is even really happening?" Emily said. "It could just be something you dreamt up for yourself. They may have been against you all along."

Brendan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head. When he opened his eyes again, Emily was gone. "I'm not abandoning them. I have to save them…"

"Brendan—"

"We're as good as dead if we run anyway," Brendan snapped. "They're all we've got… Mal's the only one who's been able to get a one-up on this guy… We stand a better chance with her and her team in line with us."

"How do you expect us to even get to them? I doubt they'd let us on the train in your current condition. Besides, the last train out of London will be running soon," Charlie piped up. "That's why Johnny and his boys were in such a hurry."

"Just go to the nearest payphone. I've got to warn them to get out. Then we'll go wherever we need to go."

"That's probably the one on the bridge," Russell said, frowning. "We'll be going the same direction as Johnny and the others."

"Go to the closest one…" Brendan groaned. He knew it would probably be wiser to go around and find one further away, but frankly he felt like he was on the verge of passing out, and he wasn't about to leave the call in the hands of the three of them. Right now he didn't really care if his moves were smart.

Russell's frown deepened, but he didn't object. Brendan had to wonder just how bad he looked. He couldn't have been a pretty sight. All Brendan could do was close his eyes, breathe slowly, and hope he made the trip. He tried to focus on staying conscious, even though his ears were ringing with the soft sound of Emily singing. It was a somber song from the ninety's just slightly out of tune and missing most of the words, just like the times she'd sung it in his bed with her fingers drawing invisible pictures on his chest.

The van lurched to a stop unexpectedly, sending Brendan rolling off of Laura's lap and onto the hard metal floor. "Are… are we here…?" he asked, lifting his head.

"Sort of," Charlie said weakly. "Um… we have a problem."

Brendan grabbed hold of the seat to hoist himself back up to a sitting position, only to find headlights beaming into their windshield, momentarily blinding them.

"Johnny's boys," Russell hissed, throwing the van into reverse and then screeching the tires as he floored it backwards, whirled the car around, and took off in the other direction. Brendan and Laura both were thrown around the inside in his haste, but it wasn't as if either of them could blame him, especially when the back window was taken out by a bullet. Brendan threw himself over Laura to protect her from the falling glass, but the move was more out of instinct than affection. "Sod this, we've got to get the hell out of here!"

"I don't think that's going to be an option," Charlie said.

The van skidded to a stop, making half of a circle on the patchy ice of the bridge underneath them. "Stay down," Laura whispered in Brendan's ear. He wasn't sure when their positions had switched and she was covering him, but he wasn't questioning it right now.

"Forget it," Charlie said glumly. "We're caught… At least we made a good run of it."

"Yeah, well, we might as well go out with our guns blazing," Russell replied, pulling a pistol out of the waistband of his jeans. "They're going to kill us anyway."

"No," Brendan said, sitting up, gently pushing Laura off of him. "It's me they want. I'll get out, lead them off, and you make a run for it. There's no guarantee it'll work, but…"

"Brendan," Laura said, "you… you realize you're giving them the opportunity to pump you full of lead, don't you? It's a sacrifice play."

"I know," Brendan said softly, "but I'm not about to let people get fucked over because of me."

"Like me?" Emily asked from behind him.

Brendan closed his eyes, trying to ignore her or send her away.

"Brendan. Brendan, you know this isn't a dream, don't you? If you die out there, you die for real. _Brendan_ ," Laura said firmly, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"They're moving in on us," Charlie said, ducking down behind the dashboard to avoid the bullets being fired towards their windshield.

"Brendan, this is _real_. You can't make the sacrifice play here. It won't change anything!"

Brendan just stared at her for a moment, cupped her jaw in his hand, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Just business, angel."

Before she could respond, Brendan threw himself out the back doors of the van, stumbled, and collapsed onto the sidewalk. He started to get up when a familiar voice shouted, "Arthur! Stay down!"

Brendan looked to his right to see one of his pursuers bang up against his car, blood spraying from a well-laid bullet to the forehead. When he looked to the left he saw—it couldn't be.

Eames?

"Go!" Eames shouted, waving his hand as if to motion to Brendan that it was clear. He staggered to his feet, only to fall again, leaning heavily against the railing of the bridge. His vision was swimming, his thoughts turning to white noise in his head.

Eames was here. Eames was here, but Eames shouldn't be here. Eames isn't a hero. Eames doesn't rescue people. Eames can't be real.

"It's just a dream," Emily whispered into Brendan's ear, her cool hand sliding up and down his back.

More shots were fired. More of Johnny's boys went down. More bullets were buried into the side of the van. Russell threw it into reverse and backed up before turning to make a run for it through the clearing pathway as Eames and others started firing into the cars blocking the way.

Eames wasn't a hero, and Emily wasn't alive. It just couldn't be real.

That was when a white hot light washed over Brendan's eyes as a sharp pain hit him directly in the shoulder. It was hot and then cold, then hot again. He could feel his t-shirt sticking to him even as he fell forward, forward, forward.

He'd been shot.

Of course, when he hit the freezing water, he realized that was probably the least of his problems.


	17. Chapter 17

**SEVENTEEN**

…Water...

He remembered water, remembered flailing in a panic as he tried to get his wits about him, tried to swim, tried to find the surface.

…can't breathe…

…someone help…

…water…

His body moved sluggishly, and with every second it was growing worse. His limbs were stiffening, and he couldn't seem to keep his head above water. He couldn't focus on anything but the pain of slapping against the freezing surface, the numbness quickly creeping into his body.

…can't breathe…

…please…

Someone.

" _Brendan_!"

It was a distant voice, the last syllable cut off as he went under again. He was close enough to the surface to hear something smack into it with a splash, but then he was sinking, sinking, sinking…

Brendan opened his eyes and found himself sitting on the pavement behind his school in San Clemente. The air was breezy and warm, the sky bright and cloudless, the pathways deserted. He was alone except for Emily who was sitting next to him, scuffing her shoes against each other just like they had that day that seemed so long ago now.

Emily looked beautiful. Sure, to Brendan, she always did, but something about her was different now. She didn't look worn down or tired or broken. Her hair was down, fluttering around her face. She was wearing a white sundress embroidered with daisies. Her heeled shoes were white and gleaming, like they'd just been polished. Her favorite blue nail polish had been given a fresh, glossy coat, her cheap blue bracelets clacking against each other when she moved.

"Emily?" Brendan queried, eyes wide, as if she'd disappear if he blinked. She'd been doing a lot of that lately.

She turned her head, tucking some golden hair behind her ear, offering a soft, slightly sad smile. "Hey," she said. "It's been a while. How are things?"

"Emily…"

She sighed, reaching out and running her hand through his curls. "You look like you've been having a pretty rough go of it. What's been going on?"

"I… I was doing something, I… It all started with…" It was so hard to remember all of a sudden.

Emily watched him for a moment, her hand gliding down to touch his jaw. "Hey," she said again, more softly. "Brendan, it's… it's okay. I'm okay."

"What?"

Her thumb brushed against his cheekbone. "You know I told you to drop it before. The thing with the brick… to just forget about it. I guess I should have expected that you wouldn't."

"It got you killed. You're supposed to be dead."

She nodded as if she already knew that, neither confirming nor denying. "You went after them. The Pin. Tug. Laura. You got caught in the crossfire… and it was all because of me. I told you to let me go, Brendan… You have to let me go."

Brendan felt his eyes welling with tears. He took hold of the hand on his face, squeezed it. "It's all my fault, Em… I got you in this mess…"

"What are you talking about?" Emily asked, brows knitting together in the middle of her forehead. "Brendan… You didn't do anything to me. Things just… _happened_ … you know?"

"It was mine, Em," Brendan said quietly, eyes glancing downwards towards her stomach and then back to her gaze. Her eyes were bluer than he remembered. "You didn't tell me… I could have protected you. I could have saved you from them. I could have—"

"You couldn't have protected me, Brendan," Emily said gently. "You couldn't have saved me… and that's because I didn't want you to. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to give you another reason to hold on, to keep fighting. I didn't want to be your china doll that you locked up in a case to keep safe. I wanted to live my own life, to be my own person… and I couldn't do that with you, Brendan. You wouldn't allow anyone else into our world… I couldn't live like that. I couldn't let _you_ go on living like that, knowing I was responsible. I knew that if we were apart, eventually you'd have to open up your world. Things didn't work out so well for me, but… it was my own decisions that led me there, Brendan. There was nothing you could have done. I'm my own person, and I had to make my own choices, even if they were bad."

She turned to face him fully, taking his face in both of her hands, leaning her forehead against his. "I don't blame you for any of this, Brendan… You have to stop blaming yourself. You've already come so far. You just have to let me go. Whatever you have to do to let me go, you gotta do it, Brendan."

"I can't…" Brendan whimpered, voice cracking in the middle. "I can't, Em, I can't…"

"Shh, Brendan, it's okay," she whispered. "It's okay to let me go. You're going to be okay."

"No…"

She stroked his hair, shushing him and cooing, rocking him a little. "I lived my own life, Brendan. You've got to stop blaming yourself and live yours. There are so many other people that count on you, that care about you. They see you, Brendan. Don't keep chasing ghosts. You're a lot more valuable than that. You've got a whole life ahead of you. You're changing already, but you've got to make that final step. You've come a long way from sacrificing others to get your answers, to get what you want, Brendan… but there's nothing to be done for me now. It's time to move on. It's finished and done."

He pulled back, sniffing as she brushed a tear away with her thumb. "I've been blaming myself for so long… I've been so angry…"

Emily nodded, sighing. "Yeah," she said, smiling affectionately, and her gaze was so soft it was almost like she was looking into the distance rather than directly at him. "You like to hold onto things with both hands. You're stubborn and thick as what all… and you're hungry for love and affection and for you to mean something to someone, to be remembered. What you don't realize is that to someone, you already _are_. You don't have to be lonely anymore, Brendan. You don't have to be afraid. There are people out there who will understand you, people who already do… but you have to let them in."

"All the stuff with the Pin, a-and the brick. Laura, Dode, Tug—"

"It's over now," Emily said. "You did what you needed to do, and now it really is finished. Where you go from here is completely up to you. You've become so much more, Brendan, don't you see it? You would let anyone go down if it served your interests, and now here you are, making the sacrifice play for people you hardly know. You've seen the other end of the spectrum. Now you just have to find the balance. For that, you gotta live, Brendan. You gotta."

"Live…?" Brendan breathed.

Emily smiled warmly at him. "I loved you a lot, you know? A long time ago… Someone's going to cherish you someday, Brendan."

"I… I fell off the bridge…" Brendan said. A flash of water. Panicked screams. "John… John Wells, all of them… They were going to kill—"

He fell silent for a moment as something clicked in his head.

"They were going to kill my friends."

"Protect them," Emily said. "Keep them safe, Brendan. It's what you do. Live. Be with people. You're worth it."

Emily pressed a kiss to his lips, letting her breath slide into his mouth. It felt almost like resuscitation. He could taste her lip gloss, the cheap fruity flavor. "You promise me that you'll be okay?"

He hesitated, if only so he could look into her beautiful face for just a bit longer. "I promise… I promise, Em, I promise."

She nodded again, looking satisfied. "Good."

"This… this isn't a dream, is it? So… how do I wake up?"

"Just breathe," she said, getting to her feet. "Keep breathing."

The wind picked up, and suddenly the light was growing brighter and brighter until everything had gone white. Brendan called out to Emily, but his voice was lost in the increasing whooshing noise in the air. It was as if a tornado was tearing through the area, lost behind the bright light but still roaring and—

Silence.

Then, "Come on, you wanker, come _on_ —"

Brendan choked as someone pressed on his chest, coughing up water that unpleasantly splattered back onto his face… and it just didn't seem to stop. He continued vomiting water out of his lungs even after he was grabbed and turned to the side, another hand on his back. His shoulder was throbbing dully, but he couldn't really feel his body. Considering the soaked hair hanging in his eyes had ice crystals forming, he imagined he was half frozen.

Finally, his inhale brought precious air. The rushing in his ears started to fade, giving way to a distant voice saying his name again and again. Brendan didn't know who because his eyes had closed at some point, and he couldn't find any strength in his reserves to do anything but breathe. He was gathered into someone's shivering but strong arms, someone just as soaking wet as him, and he managed to think _you saved me_ before his mind and the world went quiet.

* * *

The next time Brendan came to, he was buried in blankets, curled up in an unknown but very soft bed. The lamp was on, giving the room a dull, warm glow, contrasting with the television set playing on top of the dresser with the volume down at a barely discernible level. Brendan had long lost his glasses, so his vision was fuzzy, but he could tell it was some sort of news program. The window had its curtains parted, showing the gray, dreary skyline of a city.

Brendan nearly went back to sleep until his ears picked up the familiar tapping of fingers on a keyboard. Curious, he moved to roll over onto his back, hissing when his injured shoulder touched the mattress.

"Oh, you're up, huh?"

Brendan carefully laid his shoulder down, keeping as much weight off of it as possible. "Brain?" he croaked.

"In the flesh," Brain said. Brendan heard him get up from the other bed in the room, felt his own bed dip. "Sit up. Let me look at your shoulder, make sure it hasn't bled through again. You already ruined three shirts. I wouldn't want you fucking up the beds here too."

It took help to manage it, but he did what he was told, hunching forward with a shiver as the cool air of the room connected with his bare skin. Brain hummed as he lifted the bandages, observing the wound carefully before replacing them with a nod of approval. "Looks like we finally managed to stop it. It's a miracle it didn't get infected."

"What happened?"

"You don't remember? One of Johnny's goons got you in the shoulder, and you did a swan dive over the bridge. Eames dove in to save you. You made it out by the skin of your teeth, somehow. Considering you nearly drowned and froze, and to top that off with the pneumonia and the blast you took to the shoulder, all I can get from it is that you must have some kind of angel watching over you or something."

"Pneumonia…?" Brendan managed to rasp between a sudden bout of coughing.

"Well, the antibiotics the doctor gave you are working, so yeah, I'd assume he was right about that. This is the first time you've been lucid in days." Brain's hand moved to Brendan's forehead. "That fever you had finally broke."

"What happened after?"

"Hmm… well, let's see. Eames dragged you out of the water and got you breathing again, but then you passed out. Took down all of John's boys up on the bridge right as you went down, but there were more coming, so we hopped in the van and made a run for it. Your new little confidantes told us what they were planning to do, so we kept running."

"Where are we now…?" Brendan paused, licking his dry, chapped lips, "and what were all of you doing there to start with?"

"You can thank me for that, actually," Brain said, a little prideful. "Why do you think I was missing from Mal's place for so long? There's an advantage to me being basically invisible to people. I was going around London, installing some cameras I put together at all of the addresses in that little black book of yours. I figured it was best to check the places out, see who goes in and out, and this way I could watch everywhere at once. I was going to tell you, but you were gone before I could. When I got back, Eames was pretty much moping in the corner with a bruised nose. I could kind of connect the dots from there."

"Still," he added, sitting back, "when you didn't come back after the night, I knew something was up. You didn't call. You always call. So, I started going through the footage to see if you turned up anywhere, and after several hours, there you were, being dragged out of the trunk of a car. I showed Mal and the others, and things kind of spiraled into motion from there. Mal said we couldn't risk anything, said they could get intel from your mind, so we needed to move fast. She had all of us pack up Eames's car with everything important we could get our mitts on, and we left the house behind. Don't worry, I got all of your things.

"Anyway, she called in a favor with a friend at the Eurotunnel service, got us through security, and got us to London. We were going to lay low there until we could figure out a way to get to you and rescue you, but by that night the cameras I installed showed them making a run for it. It seemed like a good opportunity, and then we just so happened to come across the shootout on the way there. You know the rest."

"Are… are you telling me that you and the others happened to be there by pure _chance_?" Brendan snorted, skeptical. "I knew it… I knew this wasn't real."

Brain looked a bit alarmed for a moment, but the expression was fleeting. "Yeah," he said, getting up off the bed. "Eames said you'd probably say something like that. He told me to tell you to look in the drawer next to your bed. He also told me that if I looked at or touched what he so carefully put in there with balled up paper in a plastic bag, then he'd punch me in the face."

Brendan watched Brain, narrowing his eyes for a moment before opening the drawer and finding the bag inside. A little digging and he found exactly what he expected.

The red, loaded die.

He rolled it once, twice, a third time, then gathered it back into his hand, pressing it tightly into his palm.

Reality.

…but that didn't explain…

"What about Emily?" Brendan asked. "She… she was there with me on the bridge. She was… How can that be?"

Brain sighed. "She was there with you, huh? I can tell you, I was in the car. I saw you go down, and no one else was there with you, Brendan. There was a lot of that somnacin junk in your system, and with the fever, I would say it's entirely possible that you were hallucinating. You don't seem to realize how bad off you were."

Brendan was quiet for a minute, rolling the die around in his palm. "So… where are we now?"

"Vegas, baby," Brain smirked. "Eames called in a crazy amount of favors, and we hopped a bunch of different planes. We're back stateside though, and our trail is covered, at least for the moment. They'll probably pick it up sooner rather than later, so we've got to come up with something fast unless we want to keep running our whole lives."

"I need to talk to Eames," Brendan said, throwing back the blankets, only to quickly put them back when he realized he was naked.

Brain cleared his throat, clearly a little embarrassed. "Yeah, uh, Mal gave you a sponge bath earlier."

"Right," Brendan said. "Where are my clothes?"

* * *

Brain had given Brendan his old t-shirt and jeans and a clean pair of underwear, but he'd had to wear a pair of Brain's shoes since his own had gotten so waterlogged that they weren't much use now. He'd even used his particular brand of skills to hack into the system at a local glasses place and gotten Brendan a new pair along with a set of contact lenses. The specs were square with black frames, clearly Brain's taste, but they worked well enough for now.

His body, on the other hand, wasn't working quite so well. He was moving slower than he would have liked, his shoulder aching, his lungs burning after only a few minutes of being up and about. While he was getting dressed, Brain had advised against moving about, and Brendan could see why now, but he wasn't just going to wait around in the hotel room for Eames to make an appearance. The forger wasn't in his own room, so Brendan took the elevator down and started searching the casino.

The casino floor was an overwhelming blur of flashing lights, crowds of tourists, ringing bells, and the strong smell of cigarettes. It made Brendan a little bit dizzy and had him sort of rethinking coming down, but just when he was about to give up and go back upstairs, he spotted Eames at a slot machine.

Brendan exhaled and walked towards him, shoving his hands in his pockets, feeling the red die once more just to make sure. Eames didn't look up when Brendan came to stand beside him, instead putting out his cigarette in the ashtray set out. "So, you're up and about."

"Yeah, I am," Brendan said, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

"If you're wondering why we didn't put you in a hospital, it's because we never know if we're going to have to move fast. Besides, you don't really seem like the type that likes to be told he's out of commission, yeah?"

"I wasn't wondering that."

Eames's mouth quirked a little. "I know," he said, slightly smug as he pulled the lever. "Is there something you need to say to me?"

"You want to maybe give up the game for a few minutes so I can talk to you?"

Eames huffed a laugh, pulled the lever again. "You couldn't wait for me to come back up?"

"I…" Brendan sighed. "I just wanted to talk to you alone… Fine. Forget it."

Eames rolled his eyes, punching a button so that the machine deposited a ticket with his winnings printed on it. "All right, all right," he said, sliding the ticket into his inside pocket of his jacket and getting to his feet. "Let's walk."

Brendan fell into step with Eames, coughing into the crook of his elbow. They left the casino and found a less crowded area in the lobby. Brendan was sagging, so Eames guided him to an unoccupied bench.

"So," Eames said, "is there a reason you sought me out so quickly?"

"Why did you save me?"

Eames blinked, looking a bit caught off guard. "Sorry, what?"

"Why… Why did you save me? Why did you… risk life and limb to pull me out of the river? Weren't you pissed at me?"

Eames's brow furrowed. "Sure I was, but not enough to just let you die. I saved you because you required saving. That's how it works, isn't it?"

"Since when are you the guy to make the sacrifice play?" Brendan asked.

"Since when are you?" Eames countered, smiling cheekily.

Brendan was silent for a minute, watching Eames carefully. "You just didn't seem like the hero type," he mumbled, looking down at his lap, rolling his die around in his hand again. "When I saw you, I didn't even think you were real."

"Is this a thank you?"

"I don't know," Brendan sighed, scratching a hand through his hair. "It's hard for me to understand why you thought I deserved to be saved. I was the one who fucked up all of your plans, the one who caused you all to have to run like this. I could have stayed out of it from the beginning, could have dropped it, been done… but now… Now, all of this has gotten out of control."

Eames reached out and squeezed Brendan's uninjured soldier, and for a moment he almost looked guilty. Then he found out why. "It's not entirely your fault you're involved in this. They would have hunted you down eventually regardless of what you found on the computer since you were the only one who came out of your last job clean… That somnacin went missing, and you were the only one who could have had it, but you weren't… I was."

Brendan's eyes widened, lips parting slightly as he tried to come up with a response to that declaration. Nothing was coming to mind.

"It was part of my own personal operation. I've been taking Johnny's stashes for months now, and after war broke out at your little kingpin's lair, I put on a police officer's uniform and moved in with the rest of them. I took it with me and headed back across the pond so Mal and I could take care of it. When she received your e-mail though, it became clear that we had to help. You'd gotten involved in something so much bigger than yourself. I didn't really care all that much at first, but then Mal dug up a photograph of you, and… well…"

"You saw Antony," Brendan finished for him, "and you felt guilty because you couldn't save him… Is that why you saved me?"

"I don't know," Eames admitted. "You went over, and I just dove after. I didn't really stop to think about it. I know you've got no reason to believe anything I say, but I mean it when I say I didn't know… After that whole camera fiasco, I suppose it's best to be honest with you, at least for now. If we're going to win this war, then we need to trust one another."

"I thought you said I didn't know the meaning of war."

Eames met his gaze, and there was something so powerful, so _knowing_ in his gaze that Brendan wanted to lean back away from it. "Well, that was before, wasn't it? You've seen it now," Eames said. "I can see it in your eyes… You're a stubborn git, Brendan, I know that. There's no way you handed over that information without a fight… How bad was it?"

Brendan swallowed around the sudden knot in his throat. "It… it was the worst thing I've dealt with so far."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I don't know. Probably. It seems that way. Do you care?"

"Maybe I do. Don't ask me why though. You're a prat."

"Isn't that sort of a 'pot calling the kettle black' sort of thing?" Brendan asked with a smirk.

"Oh, fuck off," Eames laughed. "Go back up to your room. We can talk more when you don't look half-dead."

"I look better than before."

"Yeah, when I dragged you out of the river, you _were_ dead. Now, go, off with you. I've got money to gamble away."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I'll see you later, Eames." Brendan stood and made his way towards the elevators. He looked back once to see Eames still on the bench, watching him leave. He didn't get up to go back to the casino until the elevator doors were closing.

Brendan squeezed the totem in his pocket as the elevator moved back to the proper floor. Even with the proof that all of it was reality, it still felt too good to be true.

After all, being rescued had started to feel like a distant dream. Standing here now, alive, and safe because of _Eames_ no less… It was entirely surreal.

Brendan looked down at his feet, at Brain's shoes, and exhaled, scrubbing his hands over his face. This world was real, but he no longer felt like he was a part of it. Without Emily's memory hovering over his shoulder, he didn't know who he was anymore.


	18. Chapter 18

**EIGHTEEN**

The others were wary to trust Laura, Charlie, and Russell. Brendan, for one, couldn't blame them, considering the circumstances, but he was still grateful that they'd been allowed to come along. Eames, Mal, and Cobb kept their eyes on them at all times however, just to make sure they didn't meet with anyone suspicious or make any phone calls to their supposedly ex-boss. Not one of them had a word of complaint about it, agreeing to share hotel rooms. Cobb and Eames were staying with the boys, while Laura bunked with Mal, sharing an attached suite with the boys. Their caution was understandable, but Brendan knew it was likely unnecessary. The three of them had risked life and limb to rescue him when he couldn't even guarantee their safety. He seriously doubted they'd go running back to the boss that made them miserable now. Things had gotten so chaotic that Johnny probably didn't know that the three of them were even still alive.

Brendan wasn't concerned, so he mostly stayed cooped up in his and Brain's room, behaving himself for the time being. If he refrained from throwing caution to the wind like he tended to, he'd heal faster. They would be going after John Wells as soon as they had a plan, that much was for sure, and he wanted to be in fighting shape. They had to strike before John did, so the sooner he was healthy, the better.

He spent a lot of his time asleep, and in the times he was awake he was constantly fiddling with his totem. Reality revealed itself each time, no matter how unreal everything seemed. It took him a few days to figure out why everything seemed so off kilter and incorrect, but when he realized the truth, he figured it should have been obvious.

Reality wasn't different when he woke up. He was.

It could have been a dream or a hallucination or any number of things, but Emily had told him to let go, and this time he had listened. He had let her go not because he wanted to but because he had no other choice, and now he was someone else. Brendan had been hanging on to Emily and her memory for so long and so strongly that now that he'd let go, he didn't really feel like his full self anymore.

It should have felt good to be free of that ache, but it didn't. It just felt… empty. Blank.

He'd put his heart and soul, his blood, sweat, and tears on the line for her, and now that he was alone, he didn't know what to do. He knew he was still fighting for something, but he no longer knew what. His friends, maybe, or his life… He hated how unbalanced he felt, like he was teetering over the edge of something extremely important and about to fall headfirst into it. Brendan had always been the man with a plan, but now he was just lost.

He couldn't talk to Brain about it. There was no way he would understand. He might have been Brendan's closest confidante, but there were still some things they would never be able to connect on. Brendan could put on an emotionless mask when it came down to it, but Brain really could become machinelike if he needed to. There was a reason why Brain didn't have many close relationships—he had no use for them. He'd never quite understood Brendan's hang-ups over Emily and would probably fail to understand why it was a problem. For Brain, the occasional emptiness was good. Brendan, on the other hand, found solitude a lot lonelier.

He certainly wasn't about to talk to Laura about any of this. She'd helped him get out of quite a jam, but that didn't mean he had forgiven her for her crimes. He doubted he ever would. Brendan no longer felt vengeful towards her, but trust had been broken between them the day he discovered he'd been her puppet. That bridge had burned, and there was no building it back.

The only other person who knew even a brief version of the tale of Emily was Eames. Hell, Eames probably even knew what Brendan was experiencing on some level considering his history with Antony (provided he wasn't still hung up on it), but he just wasn't sure how to breach the conversation. Things were eerily awkward between the two of them after the rescue. Brendan wasn't sure he knew what to think of Eames, considering the bizarre twists and turns their "relationship" or whatever it was had taken since they'd met.

He doubted Eames was the best person to go to for any kind of advice anyway. The man wasn't exactly _wholesome_ after all. Besides, Brendan didn't like taking advice from others. For now, all he could do was just deal with it and try and figure things out for himself.

Brain had probably noticed Brendan's distance, his quietness and far-off gaze, but if he did he never commented on it. Brendan was grateful not to have questions hurled his way while he still didn't have any answers, but not everyone was so silent about Brendan's behavior.

Brendan had just gotten out of the shower and was moving back into the main part of the room when he jumped back with a hissed curse after spotting Laura sitting on the bed, legs crossed. He gripped the towel around his waist a little tighter, running a hand through his wet curls. "Is everyone going to see me naked before the end of this trip?"

"If you recall, I've already seen you naked," Laura reminded, leaning back onto her arms. "Besides, I've seen you in much worse a state than this."

Brendan snorted, digging his jeans and a clean pair of underwear out of his suitcase. "You want to maybe tell me what you're doing here?"

"Checking up on you. You haven't quite been yourself since everything went down back in London. It's not my place to ask, and I don't expect you to tell me anything anyway, but I just wanted to make sure that you're all right."

"Because you care about me?" Brendan asked skeptically, dropping the towel and sliding into his clothes.

"Maybe," she replied, but when his expression told her he wasn't buying it, she added, "but we're also walking on eggshells here. Things are tense. A war seems imminent, and you're sort of the troop leader. I just wanted to make sure your head was still in the game."

"In the end, you always are looking out for yourself, aren't you, angel?"

She didn't seem offended, instead curling a corner of her mouth upwards and responding, "Someone has to."

Brendan sat down next to her on the bed to put his socks on, not looking at her. "Don't worry about me. I'll be ready to fight when I need to. Whatever I've got going on with myself is for me to solve on my own time. I'm not going to let a bunch of people take a fall because of it."

She nodded. "So, those contact lenses suit you. I can see your face better."

"Doesn't work well for anonymity."

"It does if the ones you're up against already know what you look like. How about I give you a haircut?"

* * *

As Brendan sat in a chair in the middle of his hotel room with a sheet tied around his neck, he couldn't help but remark, "Considering our history, it doesn't seem like the best idea to let you come near me with a sharp object."

"These aren't even that sharp," Laura replied absently, snipping away at his curls. "Just hold still. I'm no expert at this, but I did well enough with my own hair."

Brendan couldn't help but stare back at her when she crouched in front of him to check the evenness so far. With her face free of makeup, she looked younger, less dangerous. She was just a child herself, no older than he was, rabidly fighting for what she believed was hers. Her actions were less than ideal, even unforgivable, but in the end she had only been trying to survive. He would never be able to condone her methods, but… well, he could understand them, at least a little.

"You know, the blonde is growing on me a bit," he said as she moved to his side to even up her trimmings.

"That's too bad, since once all this is over I'm changing it again."

"You planning on changing your hair and your name and then ride off into the sunset in search of something else?"

"I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired of fighting to survive. I'm tired of all these horrible decisions and all the consequences. I just want to start over."

"You make it sound as mundane as going to the grocery store."

"For someone like me, it is… but I'm done running. Once Johnny's in a pine box or whatever, I won't have any ties to all of this. I could use a little bit of quiet, you know?"

"It won't last," Brendan said. "This kind of world has a way of pulling you back in."

"Only as long as you have ties and the desire to hunt," Laura said. "I just want something normal. I'm getting out. If the bulls find me, if I end up in Mexico, who knows? I'm going to just let things happen. I don't have it in me to keep it up. I've fought hard for my life, and I intend to make use of it now that I've got it."

Brendan was silent while she fetched an electric trimmer from the table and started buzzing the hair from his neck. "You know," she said, "you can come with me if you want. We could try our hands at the domestic thing."

"Sorry, doll, but I'm in a bit too deep now. I've still got ties, and if it all works out, then I still will. Domesticity was never an option for a guy like me."

"Can't say I'm surprised by that answer," she said, taking the trimmer to his sideburns. "You and me, we'd never work, would we? You can't trust me not to pull another fast one, and I can't trust you not to send the bulls on me at the first sign of trouble. Still, it's sort of nice to pretend sometimes."

She stepped back, shutting off the trimmer, sighing with a solemn smile. "You know, I genuinely did like you, Brendan. I always saw you… but that's all finished now, and I can accept it." She ran a hand over his sheared hair, combing it with her fingers. "Someone's going to cherish you someday, you know?"

Brendan swallowed, heart aching with familiarity. "That's what I keep hearing," he mumbled. When her expression narrowed in confusion, he dismissed it with, "Never mind. How's it look?"

"See for yourself," she said, brushing the hair off of his shoulders before untying the sheet and letting him up.

He got out of the chair and wandered into the bathroom. It was definitely short, shorter than he'd ever had it. With the curls shorn off, his hair looked darker, and he found it a bit odd to be staring back into his own face. He couldn't help but feel like the rest of his old self had died, leaving him staring at a complete stranger. It was something he would have to get used to, definitely, but… well, maybe this would get him on the right track to figuring out just who he was now.

"So? Not too bad, right?" Laura called from where she was rolling up the sheet from the floor where the chair had sat, tossing it into the hamper for housekeeping to pick up later. "It's not perfect, but it should grow out all right. You definitely look like a different person."

"Yeah," he said as he shuffled out, leaning against the doorway. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," she said, dusting her hands off. "Just… you know, make sure you take care of yourself, all right? Whatever it is you've got going on in that head of yours, don't let it keep you from eating or sleeping or anything. We need you in tip-top shape."

"I know."

She started to walk towards the front door but stopped in front of him, just to cup his face in her hand. "I know I've said it before, but… I'm sorry, Brendan. For everything."

"I know you are," he said softly. "I'm sorry I can't forgive you for it."

She nodded, gaze at the floor. "I understand." She ran her hand through his hair one final time, mussing it a little, and then she was gone.

Brendan flopped onto his bed face first, burying himself in the pillow, and he hoped that when he'd told Laura he could handle his own problems, he was telling the truth.

It wasn't just his life at stake now. It was everyone's, and they were counting on him to help. He didn't want to fail them after they'd all worked so hard to save him. He just wished he knew what to do.

* * *

Brendan awoke suddenly from a nap a few hours later, still lacking in any kind of answer to all of his questions. He rolled over onto his side, grunting, in an effort to go back to sleep, but then there was a knock at the door. Well, that explained what had woken him in the first place.

Brendan rolled his die across the bedside table as he'd gotten in the habit of doing whenever he woke up, then pocketed it, grabbed the pistol he left next to the alarm, and went to find out who was waiting outside. He checked the peephole first, gun held ready next to his head, then sighed, unlocking the door and turning the knob.

Eames sauntered in, smelling quite strongly of the casino downstairs and probably just a dab too much cologne to hide it.

"Mal doesn't like it when you smell of cigarettes and booze and body odor?" Brendan asked, scrunching his nose up a little.

"Mal doesn't care because she can play with the best of them but her boyfriend and current roommate isn't quite so—oh."

Brendan realized Eames was staring at him. It took a minute for him to remember that he looked a lot different than when Eames had seen him last. Brendan had been holed up in his room since their little talk in the lobby, so it was probably a bit startling.

Eames recovered as flawlessly as he always seemed to, smiling. "Well, don't you look spiffy?"

"What do you want, Eames?" Brendan asked flatly, shutting the door.

Eames nodded towards the gun in Brendan's hand. "Didn't expect you to be packing heat."

"We can't be too careful right now."

"Very true. That's actually why I've come around. Mal asked me to check up with Brain and see if he'd gotten any bites on the lines he put out over the net."

"Not so far," Brendan said, setting the gun back down on the nightstand. "It's been quiet. Probably a little too quiet, honestly. He's been following up on some new leads, but for the moment he's downstairs winning small amounts of money off of the slots he's hacking into just in case we need some cash to get away on."

"Why not just give himself a jackpot?"

"Draws too much attention."

"You think he could teach me how to do it?"

"He could, but he won't. A genius is a lot like a magician. He never reveals his secrets."

"Ah, well, a non-genius like myself would doubtfully understand them, yeah?"

Brendan snorted, scratching a hand over his hair. He still wasn't used to it. "I wouldn't know. I still don't know how smart you really are."

Eames laughed a little, sitting down on Brain's bed and digging out a cigarette. Brendan rolled his eyes and snagged it away, pocketing it. "Are you trying to get us kicked out of the hotel? There's no smoking in the rooms."

"So?" Eames scoffed. "They wouldn't kick us out for the right price."

"Then smoke in your own room. Considering I'm just now getting my lungs to work right again, I'd rather not damage them anymore."

Eames's brow furrowed a bit, but he didn't complain further. Instead he asked, "I'm sorry, are you angry at me for something?"

"What? No," Brendan said. "I just already told you what you wanted to know so I don't know why you're still here."

"Then why won't you look at me directly?" Eames asked, casual and light but Brendan could sense there was something more just below the surface. He could feel it in the way that Eames took hold of Brendan's wrist, gentle but firm. "You've been up here for days and haven't said much of anything to anyone. What's going on in that head of yours, hm? This is standoffish even for you."

"How would you know that?" Brendan asked quietly, staring at the floor. "You barely know me."

"Now is when I remind you that my number one skill is reading people. You're not quite as good at keeping things to yourself as you think you are, love."

Brendan chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before turning to look at Eames with a sigh. "What do you want me to say, Eames? I spent days being tortured to death in dreams so I'd give all of you up, got shot, nearly drowned and froze to death, and I'm supposed to be all right now? Is that what you want, for me to be hunky-dory? Well, I wish. My head's still screwy. It's going to take a hell of a lot longer than that."

He hadn't exactly meant for it to come out that way, turning away and scrubbing a hand over his mouth, a little embarrassed by the way his voice had trembled at the end.

"I'm the first one to ask you, aren't I?"

Brendan didn't answer, sniffing. He couldn't hide underneath his hair anymore. That was probably why Laura had cut it so short. She was pretty adept at reading people too, after all.

"No one needs to know what it was like," Brendan said. "It's not like it'll make a difference. In the end, they found the information or I gave it up, I don't remember, I don't know anymore… All anyone has to take from that is that I have a breaking point."

He hadn't realized how badly all of this had been bothering him until now, standing before Eames and feeling like he'd taken a knife to an old wound and split it back open, letting Eames see it bleed.

Eames stared up at him, expression carefully stony, hand still wrapped around Brendan's wrist. "Everyone has a breaking point. Not many people could have withstood something like that for so long and so relentlessly. I imagine it wasn't days for you, was it? Up in reality it might not have been even that long, but down below you endured months of it, probably parts you've blacked out completely. There are things so brutal you can't even face them, not yet, maybe not ever… and you woke up a different person than you were."

Brendan took in a shaky breath, staring down at Eames. "How do you… how do you know that…?"

Eames didn't have to answer for Brendan to hear it loud and clear. He could see it in his eyes.

"They tortured you too once."

"Of course they did," Eames said, as if it was nothing. "After Antony died, I went after all of them, guns a'blazing, but I was foolish, got caught, and spent several months in one of their makeshift torture chambers."

"What did they want?" Brendan asked.

"That's the worst part, mind," Eames sighed, hand loosening from Brendan's wrist to squeeze his fingers instead, thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. "They didn't want anything from me. There was nothing I could say to get them to stop. Eventually I just had to fight my way out just like I fought my way in. I convinced some people to help me, like you did, but no one was there to save them. I saved myself but there was nothing I could do for them… but from that point on I knew I couldn't let their lives go in vain. They saved my life, and I made a vow to take down John Wells and his entire bloody operation, even if I had to spend the rest of my life, taking it one fucking step at a time. Too many people have fallen victim to his power trip, and I won't stand for it…"

Brendan couldn't believe Eames had actually admitted something like that. Eames wasn't exactly the most forthcoming type, and to trust Brendan with that kind of information was probably difficult for him. Brendan knew that because he was the same way. He never would have admitted it to Eames or even to himself if it weren't for Eames's scrutiny.

Brendan was silent for a few moments, and then asked hesitantly, "You had an opportunity to go after him, but… but instead you're here. You jumped over that bridge to save me, even though it was likely we both would have died. Why change your mind?"

Brendan hadn't exactly expected an answer, but apparently Eames wasn't done being obliging. "Because I saw myself in you. Always have, but especially on that bridge. Even through it all, you still wanted to live. You had promises to uphold. You're stubborn, just like I am. It's almost like we're different sides of the same coin, yeah? I just… I knew that I couldn't let you die, not like that. If you're determined to die, then you will, but I'm not letting you leave the world without the satisfaction of Johnny's head on a pike."

Brendan nodded, sporting a faint smile. "That's selfless of you, Eames, really."

"Your condescension is palpable, darling."

"No, I… I mean it," Brendan said honestly, sitting down on the bed next to him. "I really mean it. Thank you… for saving me and for giving me the chance to bleed that bastard. I don't consider myself a ruthless guy, but… him, I… I really want to take him down. He's hurt and killed too many people, and he's threatened my friends, and it's about time he got knocked down off of his pedestal."

Eames smiled, ducking his head. "Good, good. That's the spirit."

Brendan turned away from Eames to look out the window. The sky was clear blue, Emily's favorite color. "I let her go, by the way… The person I couldn't save. I forgave myself, and I let her go."

"Nothing to be done for a dead person," Eames said, sliding a hand up through Brendan's hair. "Good on you, mate. She'll be at peace now. Maybe she'll keep Antony company, wherever we go when this is over, if there is a place. They can complain to each other about what complete tossers we were."

It hurt to smile, but in a good way. Brendan dragged his hand up through Eames's hair too, and both of them just sat like that for a few minutes, chuckling to themselves.

When the laughter had died down, Eames's arm slid around Brendan's shoulders instead, while Brendan's arm fell back to his side. "I know you're not all right," Eames said. "No one would be. I'd be far more concerned if you were fine, I assure you… Just… don't think you have to solve all of this on your own. There are people you can talk to if you need to. This icy façade of yours that you're using to push everyone away, it's only going to hold up so long. That friend of yours that you're bunking with is keeping his distance because he thinks it's what you need, I know it from the way his shoulders were set when he left an hour ago, but now's not the time to hide. You'll drive yourself mad."

"I know, I just… I need some time to sort it out… When this war is over, maybe then, but I just… can't deal with all of it right now."

Eames just shook his head in wonder. "If I didn't know it for sure, I could swear you were a soldier. The military would absolutely love you."

"I doubt that," Brendan smirked. "I sort of have a problem with authority."

"Good point."

Eames tugged on Brendan a little, and Brendan found himself falling against Eames's shoulder, head pillowed there. "You'll be all right," Eames said. "In time, you'll be all right."

For once, Brendan believed him.


	19. Chapter 19

**NINETEEN**

As ridiculous as it was, talking to Eames had made Brendan feel a little less lost. He wasn't completely repaired by any means, but he rested easier. Without his brain being entirely preoccupied, he could focus more on the problem at hand and attempt to come up with some sort of solution.

He hadn't found one yet, but he was trying.

Brainstorm sessions between him and the rest of the group were long and usually a bit fruitless. Russell, Charlie, and Laura were well aware of what John Wells was capable of, and they also had faith that he wouldn't be found easily if he didn't want to be. He also didn't give a damn whose lives he had to sacrifice in order to save his own skin. Brendan was pretty sure most everyone already knew about that part.

"The good thing is," Charlie said as they all sat about in one of the hotel rooms, "and keep in mind that good is not great… but the good thing is that Johnny's attitude about saving himself means that we're probably not the only ones who are disloyal to him. There's a chance we can make contact and find out where he's stashed himself away."

"Yeah, and then he could find out where we were," Brain said skeptically. "Not for nothing, but loyal or not, he's got a lot more guys in his arsenal than we do."

"I know it's a 'maybe' at best," Charlie said.

"We're going to need to do better than 'maybe'," Brendan said flatly.

Charlie sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "It's a jumping off point, all right? I don't see any of you coming up with any bright ideas."

"Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine?" Eames asked cheekily.

"I haven't slept in two days, sue me," Charlie grumbled. "Who's to say you're not going to use one of us as bait? It's not easy to really relax with that hanging over my head."

Eames shrugged, his expression as careless and self-pleased as it usually was. "Actually, that's not a terrible idea," he teased, his grin only widening when Charlie blanched.

"Don't listen to him," Mal said with a roll of her eyes. "If we were just going to toss you, we wouldn't have gone through the trouble to save you. You could have betrayed us at any time, and you didn't, so I can assure you that you're as safe as you can be with us."

"We're not the kind of people to make the sacrifice play," Cobb said. "I don't think any of us could ever be that desperate."

"That's because you've never been that desperate," Russell snorted.

Laura lit up a cigarette, leaning against the arm of the chair Charlie was propped in. "So, what do we do? We're sitting ducks here, and he's probably got guys scouring the globe for our faces. He doesn't know what move we're going to make, so I guarantee he's spooked. We're sort of stuck in the same situation, so it's a stalemate, but staying here isn't the best way to go."

"If we go on the run though, we've got a trail," Mal said. "At least here there are crowds to disappear into and a lot of ground to cover. I know we can't stay here forever, but I'm not sure moving is our best option right now either."

"I know," Laura sighed before taking a drag. "Our next move is going to be risky no matter what."

"Which is why we need to come up with a plan of action, yeah?" Eames offered impishly. "That's what this little pow-wow is for."

"Helpful," Brendan said sarcastically, cutting his eyes towards Eames.

"All right, how about we just put our hands up and tell him where we are?" Eames suggested, and suddenly everyone was looking at him like the nut he apparently was. "Now, now, hear me out, don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm saying we have him come to us, and then we ambush him."

"What part of 'bigger arsenal of guys than us' didn't you get?" Brain asked. "There's no way we could take them down on our own."

"You Americans took down my people in your little revolution even though the odds were against you. Where's your fighting spirit?" Eames teased. Brain's cheeks colored in anger. It was about as out of control as Brain got. "Anyway, that's not all. I know a few blokes who would want to break some deserving skulls, and I've got some who owe me favors too. I can make a few phone calls, and then we've got back up. We'll find a place, set up a battleground, and send out our battle cry. Then we just wait to see if he bites. He wants to play war, then we'll give him war."

"Having a couple of your friends show up in the middle of nowhere with guns doesn't guarantee any sort of victory," Laura complained. "It's basically a suicide mission!"

"Nothing we do is a guaranteed victory," Eames replied. "If I go out, I want to go down swinging." He sighed when the room fell silent, sitting back in his chair, throwing his hands in the air. "Regardless of what we do, we have to make a move or they'll move in on us first. I guarantee that they won't be merciful."

"It's not the greatest plan," Brendan admitted, running a hand over his hair, "but it's probably about as close as we're going to get to a good one."

The entire room was dismal, Brendan included, but he knew Eames was right about one thing. It was war, and they sure as hell needed to make the first move if they stood any chance of succeeding.

"Once we're set up and prepared, one of the three of you will squeal," Brendan nodded towards Russell, Charlie, and Laura. "Say you were forced into going with us, something like that, play double agent."

"And if he doesn't believe us?" Russell asked skeptically. "You realize that he'll kill us, don't you?"

"You won't be face to face with him. Whoever it is, they'll say they've been captured, made an escape, but we're hot on your tail, something like that. I don't know. Either way, it has to be one of you because he'd certainly be less inclined to believe it's a trap if it's someone who's worked with him in the past."

"He'll still probably think it's a trap," Laura said.

"Then we'll have to be prepared for that, won't we? Either way, if we make the call, we're the ones dealing the cards. Whether we have a good hand or not is unfortunately up to fate, but I'd rather be the one in control than him," Brendan sighed. "It's all we can do."

"I'll start making calls then," Eames said.

"Me too," Mal added. "I think I know a few people who might be able to assist."

"I'll keep my eyes online to see what the buzz is," Brain mumbled, adjusting his glasses. "I'll scope out the desert and see if there's a place we can use. For that, I'm going to need lots of coffee."

"I can help with all that," Charlie said. "I'm pretty good with computers."

"Great, well, let's all batten down our hatches and get started then, yeah?" Eames offered lightly, and honestly, Brendan had no idea how he could be so calm. Then again, Eames's default emotion was playful. It was an impressive way to keep people's guards down, really, and if Brendan didn't trust him, he would have been absolutely terrified of what he could do.

Actually… when did he start trusting Eames exactly?

* * *

Things were moving slowly, which Brendan supposed wasn't that much of a surprise since they had to handle this work as delicately as possible. Eames and Mal weren't just dialing up their friends and asking to join the crusade after all. Background checks had to be done, thorough ones, to ensure loyalty, as well as offers of the right kind of price. Eames's friends in particular weren't dependable without a price.

Unfortunately, moving so slowly meant that there was a lot of time to sit around. Brendan never did find sitting around very relaxing, especially before something big, risky, and probably stupid was about to go down. He paced about his hotel room, stewing on it, until Brain ended up leaving with the claim that he'd never get any work done with him buzzing about.

It wasn't twenty minutes later when Eames arrived, looking like he was enjoying himself just a little more than he should, given the situation. "Your mate showed up in our room complaining about not giving him any peace. Trouble in paradise?"

"Brain usually works completely alone," Brendan shrugged. "He's not used to company unless he calls for it." He pursed his lips, eyes making a slow drag towards Eames's hand where it was wrapped around a bottle of whiskey. "You intending on making friends with Jack Daniel?"

"Thought it might calm your nerves a bit. Fancy a drink?"

"Do you have glasses?"

Eames rolled his eyes with a grin. "What do you take me for? Sit."

Brendan did on the edge of his bed and watched Eames push the door shut with his shoulder before setting the whiskey bottle on the bedside table. Eames pulled two tumblers out, one from each pocket of the blazer he was wearing, and set them next to the bottle. "I'm afraid I don't have any ice in my pockets, mind," Eames said, pouring two fingers of the drink into each glass.

Brendan lifted his glass. "Cheers, I guess."

Eames clinked his glass against Brendan's and took a swallow. "So, you're a bit in a tizzy, hm."

"I don't like waiting around if I can't do anything to help."

"You'll be getting your hands plenty dirty soon enough, I promise."

Brendan looked down into his glass, swilling the liquid around. "We might not get out of this one."

"I'd say we probably won't, but we might as well give it the old college try."

"So, you aren't afraid to die?"

"Please," Eames huffed. "Death has been following me around since I joined her majesty's and let people shoot at me. I don't want to die, no, but all the same I'm not afraid of it. We all have to go sometime and all that. Why? Are you afraid?"

"No," Brendan said, soft and honest. "I think you and I are both well aware of the fact that I've had a death wish right up until recently. It's just… when you're at that breaking point, you kind of can't help but think about what you did, what you didn't do… people who you might be leaving behind, people you never thought you cared about, people you never thought cared about you… You wonder what's after… if all of that peace and paradise stuff is real or just the bullshit we come up with to comfort ourselves into sleep. You think about how things could have been different if only _you_ were different. All that stupid stuff."

"So, you think if you could go back and do it all again, you'd do it differently."

Brendan snorted. "I doubt it. If I thought I had a leg up on destiny, I'd probably do the exact same thing and think I could stop all of the bad parts in the process. I'm thick-headed."

Eames had a touch of a smile on his lips, but he made it disappear with another swig from his glass. "It's all meaningless in the end, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Brendan said weakly. The hand holding his glass started to tremble unexpectedly, and he could feel Eames's eyes on him. "It's not fair, is it? Most of us are just… We're fucking _kids_ , Eames, we shouldn't… We shouldn't have to do all this…"

"You play grown-up games, you have to play by grown-up rules," Eames said gently, setting his glass down and then taking Brendan's and setting it aside as well. He sat next to Brendan and put an arm around him. It was slow but deliberate, his fingers squeezing his shoulder before sliding casually over his bicep. It was a gesture asking for trust, and for some reason it felt like a lifeline. Brendan was hanging on for dear life. "It doesn't mean you're not allowed to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Brendan said, though the tremor in his voice might have indicated otherwise. "I just don't want it to be over. I don't want to die like this… If I die, that means I _fail_ , and I can't let it end like that, Eames. That can't be how it's supposed to be."

"Well, your heart's still beating right now, isn't it? There's no guarantee you're going to die."

"My life isn't the only one though, Eames… These people… Brain, Mal, even Cobb… Even _you_ … You're my friends. If one of you goes down… I can't, I can't let it end that way either. I already lost Emily and most of my mind. I dragged so many of these people into this mess, and if I don't get them out, what does that say about me?" He paused, hands wringing in his lap, licking his dry lips. "I know one thing is for goddamned sure, I'd rather die than watch people get slaughtered to protect me."

"They're going to be fighting for their own lives," Eames said, squeezing his shoulder a little. "We all are. If we wanted out, we could have gotten out by now… Stop being so selfish, thinking all of this is for you." Smile.

"I know it's not," Brendan said softly. "Everything spiraled out of control though… because I threw a tantrum."

"Over some surveillance cameras in a house full of people you were wary about," Eames said with a shrug. "As agitated as I was when you broke my laptop and accused me of treason, I can't say I would have behaved any differently in your situation. Well. No, I can't say that because I'm not nearly as hot-headed as you are. I probably would have been a little less upfront in my offense. Itching powder in your clothes or something."

Brendan leveled him with a deadpan gaze, so Eames gladly continued. "Okay, yeah, probably something worse than that but I'm not about to give you all of the bullets in my arsenal. It's an example. What I'm trying to say is that we all make bad plays once in a while. We're human beings; it's how we function. If you want to place the blame on anyone it should probably be on me since I'm the one who stole Johnny's stash out of that den in San Clemente, and no, no, don't go shaking your head at me like that. I can see the look on your face so don't even try it, all right?" Brendan had been about to say something, but he stayed quiet.

"The fact of the matter is, love," Eames continued, "that it'll play out how it plays out, and there's no use in tossing blame and fear about. Sometimes you just have to sit back and let your luck work for you. As far as I'm concerned, we've gotten this far, so maybe we'll win this hand too. There's no point in worrying about it because we've already sat down to play."

"I've never been that much of a gambler."

"Bollocks. You're as much a gambler as I am, and you play higher stakes than I ever did. You put your cards on people who for all you knew could have betrayed you, and you won that hand. I never would have bet on that."

"I had nothing left to lose."

"Just your life."

"Which I would have lost anyway."

"Yes, and you're alive and kicking, aren't you? Maybe you have some sort of angel on your shoulder or something. Death is mocked by you, you bloody marvel."

Brendan hummed, picking up his glass again with a slightly steadier hand and knocking back what was left inside of it. "I don't think this is any time to get cocky."

"Never said it was, but if there was anyone I would be willing to bet on in this little prizefight, it would be you. You're no child anymore, darling. You've been made into a man on this little journey, and you're tough as nails at that. I don't put much faith in a lot of things, but I put my faith in you."

Brendan watched him for a moment or two, lips parted slightly. There was still a lot he didn't know about Eames, but he definitely understood the strength of this confession, no matter how casually it was said. Eames was the man who didn't have friends without a price, who smiled to hide his true intentions. He was a man who was distrustful because it was safer that way, a man who preferred a loyalty that could be bought. He'd learned with Antony that true devotion hurts a lot more than when betrayal is expected. Brendan knew Eames would turn on someone quicker than they could even think of how to do the same and probably had back-up plans for his back-up plans, even if he'd never admit to them.

Now here the two of them were, out of options, and Eames was putting his faith in Brendan. Eames had let Brendan inside.

"We should… probably see what everyone else is doing," Brendan said softly. He could feel Eames's breath he was sitting so close. It had seemed so natural that he hadn't even noticed it until now.

"Yes, probably," Eames said, though he never stopped looking into Brendan's eyes, never made even an attempt to move out of his personal bubble. Eames's arm was still around him, and he didn't have the slightest urge to shrug him off. "See if they've made any progress. Now isn't the time to be getting distracted."

"Distracted by what?" Brendan asked.

"Mm, probably this," Eames said, a warm hand planting itself on the side of Brendan's neck and dragging him those couple of inches closer to close the distance. He kissed Brendan's bottom lip, just lightly sucking on it for just a moment before releasing it. He didn't move away though.

"Yeah, we probably shouldn't do that," Brendan agreed breathlessly, and then dragged Eames back in and letting their mouths slot together properly. Eames's breath was hot and tinged strongly with the flavor of Jack Daniel's, as well as a cigarette he probably smoked before coming by. It was a flavor that on anyone else wouldn't have been welcome, but here and now Brendan savored the taste, letting it fill up his thoughts and his body.

Eames's hands slid down Brendan's arms, dropped to the bed, and then he was leaning forward and taking Brendan down with him. Brendan's head hit the mattress, and he used that opportunity to take a quick breath before taking Eames in for another long kiss, tongue sliding over Eames's teeth. Eames let out a soft groan, and it rumbled through all of Brendan's bones.

Kissing Eames was more familiar than it should have been considering they'd only done this once before. The desperation was missing from this one, but Brendan was quick to realize that it was hard to remember his previous kisses in comparison. It was hard to focus on anything but what was happening right here and now, with Eames's left hand planted next to his head and the other sliding up his side under his t-shirt. Eames seemed content to taste every inch of Brendan's mouth, but then he was pulling away to trail kisses along his jaw and back towards his ear.

The next sound came from Brendan's throat, soft and wanting. Eames's lips were slightly chapped from the dry Vegas weather, and his stubble was a little scratchy, but in that moment Brendan wouldn't have traded it for anything.

Before he'd needed someone to take care of him, just for a little while, but this time around he wasn't so sure if that was what he was searching for. Perhaps, he thought, this was his way of opening his doors to Eames as well, returning trust for trust. He didn't know for sure, but he didn't really care that much because Eames was gently biting at his ear lobe and that made his skin feel like it was on fire.

Eames paused, then rested his cheek against the side of Brendan's neck, feeling the pulse pounding there. Then he was back at Brendan's mouth, pulling him up from the mattress so he could ruck his t-shirt the rest of the way up. They broke only so it could be taken off completely, and then Brendan's arms were tangling around Eames's neck and his tongue was dragging along the roof of Eames's mouth.

Eames's hands had settled on Brendan's ass when the kiss broke again, and he was smiling a little, eyes half-lidded, giving him an almost dopey look of adoration. Brendan was suddenly very aware that Eames wasn't kissing Antony this time. He only had eyes for Brendan. For some reason that made him feel all the more longing.

"You're not going to back out on me this time, are you?" Brendan panted, managing to find some sort of focus even with a hard on pressed against the thigh he was straddling.

Eames's grin just widened, and he pressed a chaste kiss on his lips before moving back to take off his blazer, then the shirt underneath it. Brendan's mouth went dry as he studied the tattoos Eames revealed a little bit at a time. He'd never been attracted to a man like this before, but he guessed there was a first time for everything.

Eames tossed his shirt aside and gently shoved Brendan until he fell back onto the bed, limbs sprawled. "I'm honestly kicking myself for backing out the last time," Eames assured him, crawling over him and pressing long lingering kisses to his cheek, his lips, his chin. "Have you even been with another man before?"

That was when Brendan faltered, though only momentarily. "It's not an area of expertise for me, no."

Eames hummed, gaze warming. "Don't worry about it. We'll start things slow, mm? Save the more complicated things for another time."

Brendan didn't get the opportunity to ask what exactly he meant by that before Eames was unbuttoning Brendan's jeans and sliding his hand inside. Brendan's hips jerked, voice catching in his throat. It felt like it had been an eternity since he'd been touched like this. It wasn't anything he'd been particularly needy for, at least not most of the time, but it was in times like these that he remembered just how often he'd gone without…

…and it wasn't even about sex, not really. Brendan had spent so many days, so many long nights alone or as good as alone, hiding under the fringe of his hair. He'd stayed cold, forcing his focus onto task after task, fighting just for a reason to keep on going, to find someone worth holding onto. Eames might not have been that person—he honestly didn't know right now, but to have a gentle hand on him, one he could entrust wouldn't be turning traitorous, that was something he'd grown to miss. The only trustworthy hand that had ever been laid on him was Emily's, and without her, finding another wasn't really in his interest. He'd promised her though, and he would keep the promise this time.

It was time to move forward. He possibly didn't have a whole lot of life left ahead of him, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Eames dragged Brendan's jeans and underwear down his thighs. The air made him shiver, but he couldn't look away from Eames's face. Brendan swallowed, took a couple of breaths, and said one word.

"Please…"

Eames met the word with another kiss, soft and lingering. Brendan could see the wrinkles in Eames's brow, the way his expression had looked almost concerned, almost sympathetic, like he could understand why it hurt so much to say, why it took so long to say it. Maybe he could understand it. Maybe Brendan had just been the one to break and say it first.

As quickly as the look was there, it was gone, and Eames was smiling again. He rubbed his cheek against Brendan's, nipped at his untouched earlobe, and whispered, "Don't worry, love. I've got you. Everyone always said I've got a mouth for sucking cock."

"Please don't talk about everyone," Brendan grunted, laughing breathlessly as Eames nibbled at his neck.

"Something tells me you're going to be demanding in bed. I'll keep that in mind," Eames said, crouching between Brendan's legs. "If you weren't so lovely, you wouldn't be getting away with this."

Brendan wanted to come up with some sort of jabbing response, but then Eames's was taking him into his mouth, and he forgot.

He let out a whimper, but Eames's hands were petting his shaking thighs almost immediately. Brendan was torn between watching and squeezing his eyes shut just in the effort not to lose control all together, but he eventually settled on the latter. His hand slid up through the short bristly hairs on Eames's head, the other hand gripping the sheet. He breathed in and out, in and out, shakily through his nose while Eames slowly, almost methodically, sucked him off. Just when Brendan would think he was getting used to what Eames was doing, he would of course do something different, causing him to groan and shift his hips. Eames apparently did this just like he did everything else, relying on giving a person a certain impression and then adjusting accordingly to keep on surprising.

The sounds Brendan was making were wrecked, only becoming more so when he dared venture to open his eyes and see Eames expertly taking him down as far as he could. His stubble was rubbing against Brendan's thighs every now and then, and his eyes were watching interestedly for every response. Brendan couldn't even imagine how he looked right now, but apparently it was appealing because Eames was looking pretty wrecked himself—flushed, sweating, pupils blown, hands roaming over every inch of skin Brendan had offered him as if he couldn't get enough of touching him.

It really was quite a sight, and Brendan in a feverish wave of hormones couldn't help but wildly think that it was a view he hoped to get used to.

This wasn't love, Brendan knew that for sure. He'd felt love before, and this wasn't it, at least not yet. It wasn't love at all, but whatever it was, it was close enough.

It was all Brendan really needed, at least for now.


	20. Chapter 20

**TWENTY**

Brendan didn't last long, but Eames didn't either. He waited until Brendan was close and left him whimpering long enough to get his own fly down. Eames jerked himself off in time with his mouth, fingers digging into Brendan's thighs. He came only a few pumps after Brendan did, having watched as Brendan shook and fell apart, sending ropes of it across Brendan's stomach. Brendan's fingers were tangled in the short hairs at Eames's neck, half of his face pressed into the pillow, so he hadn't really seen Eames come so much as he'd felt it, and for some reason that made it a hell of a lot more intense.

There was a moment where Eames just leaned against Brendan's inner thigh, his hot breath ghosting against the flesh there, but then he proceeded to take Brendan's t-shirt and use it to clean them both up before flopping down next to him on the bed with his typical cheeky grin.

"You're real proud of yourself, aren't you?" Brendan tried to say flatly, but it came out more sleepy than agitated. He just couldn't manage agitation right now, still floating on endorphins. He was more relaxed than he had been in a long time. He thought about mentioning that Eames had set out what he'd come here to do one way or another, but for some reason it just didn't feel right.

"Mm, a little," Eames hummed, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Brendan's jaw. It was an oddly affectionate move, one Brendan didn't really know how to respond to, even after all they'd done. It just seemed like the moment had passed and the sweetness was no longer appropriate. He wasn't in the mood to bring it up though, so he just settled against the pillows and watched as Eames found his deck of cigarettes and lighter in his jacket and light one up. Brendan had watched him do this as if the world was moving in slow motion, his large hands reaching over the bed to fumble for his clothes even though it would have been easier to leave the bed. Eames seemed perfectly content to stay where he was though, smoke settling in around him in tendrils just as languid as his smile. "So, how was your first experience with a man? Not too bad, eh?"

Brendan smirked. "I've had better."

Eames could have insulted him, but instead he just blew smoke in Brendan's face, making him cough.

"Don't even pretend like it wasn't good," Eames snorted, lying down next to him. He was close but not too close, and Brendan wasn't sure if that made him feel at ease or not. He watched Eames form an 'O' with his lips and release a couple of smoke rings into the air.

"I don't know if that necessarily qualifies as genuine sex, mind," Brendan said lazily.

"You've got a lot more to learn about sex then, sprog," Eames chuckled, taking another drag off of his cigarette. "Let's just call it a starter pack or whatever. Next time it'll be different."

"What makes you so sure there'll be a next time?"

"Changing your mind about the boys? It's the beard burn on your thighs, isn't it—"

"You know why I said it," Brendan interrupted, and though his voice was soft, it quieted Eames instantly.

They spent a long, silent moment just watching one another. When Eames finally moved, it was just to take one of the empty glasses off of the bedside table to tap his ashes into. "Your fascination with death is a bit morbid," Eames said lightly, setting the glass down on the opposite table that was closer to him so he wouldn't have to reach over Brendan to reach it. Brendan couldn't help but realize it was his own glass Eames was using as an ashtray.

"It's kind of a very real threat right now, isn't it?"

"It always is, especially in our line of work."

"Yeah, but…"

Eames smiled, but the joy behind it was far away. "It'll happen when it happens, love. There's no way to know for sure, so might as well make plans for the future. If we spend all our time worrying, we'll waste the hours we've still got."

Brendan sighed through his nose, rolling onto his side and plucking Eames's cigarette from between his fingers before taking a long drag off of it. Eames just stared in a bit of shock as Brendan handed it back, smoke sliding out through his mouth.

"I thought you didn't smoke."

"I don't. Doesn't mean I haven't."

"Really, now?"

"I used to share them with my first high school girlfriend. I smoked them because she told me to."

"Someone as independent as you taking orders? I would have loved to see that."

"I was a Freshman and Kara was my ticket into the circles. I went into it to use her and ended up getting used. Story of my life."

"She was quite a dish then, mm?"

"Sure she was, but that wasn't what made her so much of a temptress. She was fucking crafty. At least once I got wise to her games I didn't get fooled again. Not by her at least."

"A crafty woman will be the death of you, darling."

"Actually, at this point I'm starting to think everyone's out to get me."

"You do have a certain allure."

"Well, what's your excuse?"

"Hey, you're the one who kissed me back. You tell me. Is it the accent? It's usually the accent. Most people find me charming and handsome too, so it could really be any of those things."

"Well, I find you a little insufferable, so I think I'll go with the fact that I could die soon and you were available to help me get my rocks off."

"You wound me," Eames said, though he didn't sound terribly wounded. It was hard to tell with Eames, however, since his poker face was so sublime. "It seems like that girl you brought back with you, Laura, likes you well enough. Why not her?"

"We have a history," Brendan sighed. "She was in with the Pin when I was working him. It's complicated."

"How complicated are we talking here?"

"Emily's body is on her name as much as it is on mine." It even amazed Brendan how easily he said it now.

"Oh…"

There were a couple of minutes where Eames was silent. Brendan was pretty sure he'd actually managed to genuinely surprise him.

"You're wondering why I let her in."

"A tad."

Brendan rubbed his hands over his face, staring up at the ceiling. "I didn't really have a choice… and I think… I think I came to the realization that she was just trying to get out. Emily was her ticket out, and she took it. Not everyone cared about her as much as I did… To this day it enrages me, but… if I'd been in her position and there was a body there to put the blame on, someone I didn't give a damn about, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing… It's not a very heroic thing to say, but… that's what I figure. I'll never forgive her, but I'm the one who put Emily in front of the bullet. Laura was just the one who yelled fire."

"I guess we're only as heroic as our opportunity allows."

Brendan swallowed. "Yeah… I guess."

He wasn't sure where the wave of uneasiness had come from, but there was nothing to be done about it… not right now, at least.

* * *

"Can I ask you a question?" Brain asked as he stared down at the tabletop. He'd found a map of Nevada including the mostly uninhabited parts of the desert and gone about with Russell and Charlie to mark off locations they could use for the war. It was down to a few different abandoned buildings not too far from Reno off of I-80, and currently Brain was discussing with Brendan the pros and cons of each one. Frankly, Brendan didn't really see any difference in any of them and was under the impression that they should just pick one, but Brain seemed to think that this needed to be handled as delicately as anything else, so Brendan humored him.

"Sure," Brendan said, leaning his chin onto the palm of his hand, a bit bored and ready to go into action. The waiting was getting unbearable.

"It's nothing really," Brain said as casually as he could muster which was admittedly not much. Brendan watched him cautiously, curious as to what he was going to say. Brain wasn't typically the type to get flustered. "Just uh… I couldn't help but notice when I came back to the room this afternoon that it sort of smelled like cigarettes and cologne."

"Eames tends to bring a certain scent with him whenever he comes by."

"Yeah, I know. I mean, trust me, I definitely know that. That's why you never have to tell me when he's been here. It's just. I don't know. Something else."

"What else?"

Brain cleared his throat, eyes thoroughly locked on the map across the table. "Look, I know I'm not the most social of creatures, but I know what sex smells like."

Brendan quirked an eyebrow.

"I do!" Brain complained.

Brendan shrugged a shoulder, looking back down at the map.

"Okay, so… when did all that happen? Since when are you into guys?" Brain asked after he didn't get a confirmation or denial.

"Just passing the time, Brain," Brendan said vaguely, dismissively. "There's no need to start building up crazy theories about what's going on in my head, and I'm sure you don't want to hear the details of my sex life."

"God, no. Just… I guess I just didn't expect it. Ever since Emily, and then Laura I guess—you never really told me what happened there, but I'm pretty sure I got the message… you just didn't seem interested in that kind of stuff. Then there's the fact that you and Eames kind of squared off from the moment you met. It surprises me a little, is all."

"Yeah, well… you were the one who said before we even got involved with all this was that it was time I shifted gears and focused on someone who wasn't Emily."

"That's true, but I'm pretty sure I didn't mean you should set your sights on the first person you came across once we reached Paris." Brain huffed when Brendan rolled his eyes and added, "Look, I'm not saying it's that cut and dry. I know it's not simple. Hell, the very fact that you're involved in it is proof enough that it's not simple. I can't help but show a little concern though, Brendan. When I told you to shift gears, I meant it, but I wasn't saying to switch genders. You can get busy with whoever you want, but I know you've got a tendency to lean towards those who have the potential to destroy you. I don't know if that's some sort of complex or something, but I just want to make sure that's not what this is. I'm just looking out for you."

"I didn't ask you to look out for me, Brain."

"No, you didn't, and as long as I consider you my friend, you'll never have to."

Brendan sort of wanted to argue with that, but he doubted Brain would let him. "Well, you don't have to worry, all right? This… thing… with Eames. It's not really. Well, it's not really anything. I've got my eyes open and more important things to deal with than that."

"I trust you," Brain assured him, "despite all of the shit in the past that should lead to the contrary. You've always walked away from things alive, things you _shouldn't_ have walked away from, so…"

"I'm the only man you've got left to bet on," Brendan said, smirking.

"Kind of… but for what it's worth, I'd still bet on you regardless. Just don't die, got it?"

"I can't make any promises, but I'm certainly going to try not to."

"You'd better," Brain said, "or I'll find a way to bring you back, dig your up, and kill you again myself."

"Knowing you, you'd actually manage it."

Brain just shook his head, laughing a little to himself. "It's weird to see you smile, like actually smile. I don't think I've seen you do that since Em was still around. I was about convinced I'd never see it again."

Brendan couldn't help but feel awkward, as if he'd just been complimented by a stranger. It wasn't really like Brain to notice things like that, at least as far as Brendan knew, but perhaps he hadn't given his friend enough credit. Brain was as observant as they came, but maybe he just wasn't very vocal about it. In a way, Brain had stayed in the background, doubling up as Brendan's guardian and conscience when necessary, quick to dryly remark when Brendan let his emotions cloud his judgment. He'd never told Brendan what to do, but he'd been there to pick up the pieces when it inevitably went bad. For such a long time, Brendan had been so sure he was alone in all of this, that everyone he put faith and trust in would ultimately leave him hung out to dry, but that wasn't true, not really.

Brain had always been there, and if Brendan had any say in it, he always would be.

So, no, Brendan hadn't given Brain enough credit, not nearly enough, but he hoped to make up for it. Now that he was in on the dreamshare community, he wasn't entirely sure he could get out of it. With each day passing, he was getting more and more tangled in their wires, so he knew he'd have to make the best of it, and one thing was for damn sure. Brain would be getting a huge cut of his paychecks for quite a while. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was all Brendan could offer. He was sure Brain would sleep easily at night (when he did sleep), knowing that Brendan was still depositing that money into his account because that meant that Brendan was still alive.

That was Brendan's plan, and if this John Wells thing worked out, he had full intention of sticking to it. There was no backing out on it this time…

Of course, there was still the very real possibility that this job wouldn't work out, so he had to have a plan B.

"Brain," he said, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder, making him look at him. "Look, I swear I will try and make it through all this. I'm not going to go in there with a death wish, I promise you that. I owe you more than to get my skull blown off over something I can't change, all right? Still, these guys are pretty damn bad. They're bigger fish than we've ever faced down."

"I know that," Brain said softly, brow furrowing a little. "It wouldn't be you if it wasn't stupid and reckless."

"All I'm saying is that if something happens in there, I want you to get out of it all, okay? Wipe your history, hop on the first plane out of town, and get somewhere safe where you can live a normal life. Don't get mixed up in all of this, not like me. Promise me that if all of this goes south you'll do that. Promise me."

"There'd be no fun in it without you," Brain replied.

"I just… I know what vengeance can do to a person. It destroys you, and you don't get anything out of it. At the end of the day Em is still dead. Justice for her death… it didn't taste any different than the misery. The only thing to do is to let it go and try to be the kind of person they would have wanted you to be. I'm not strong enough to do that, not really… I'll always be this. I'm in too deep… but you're not. You've got a lot more greatness in you than I do, Brain, so don't run it through the mud. Promise me. Say you promise."

"I promise, Brendan."

"Good," Brendan sat back, looking back down at the tabletop. He decided, circling the old warehouse where they'd lay their trap with a black marker.

"Just one thing though," Brain added as an afterthought. Brendan looked up at him, about to protest, but Brain interrupted. "You've got a whole hell of a lot of greatness in you, Brendan. Maybe if you saw it, you'd see that you're a lot stronger than you think. Em's still dead at the end of the day, yeah, but you're not, and you have to remember that she saw something in you once. I know that, even if you're over her, you hold her memory to your highest standard, so keep in mind that she chose you back then. She saw it, I see it, and hell, maybe even Eames sees it too. Don't beat yourself up."

Brendan snorted. "You're a good friend, Brain."

"I'm the best friend you've ever had," Brain replied, grinning.

Brendan could do nothing but nod, smiling a little solemnly. It would take a little more than a pep talk to convince him he was worthy of Brain's friendship, but he wasn't selfless enough to abandon it now.

* * *

For as slowly as things had been moving, suddenly it all seemed to be going too fast. Things were moving into motion, people were arriving to fight, and it worried Brendan that things were spinning too quickly to keep control over it. Brain had assured him that everything would work out, but he hadn't been able to look Brendan in the eyes when he said it, so he knew that there were doubts all around. Even Eames seemed to have lost a bit of his casual indifference, though Brendan didn't know if anyone else could see it. It was astounding how much easier it was to read a person after sleeping with them.

Brendan couldn't sleep, so he got up, checking Brain's bed before going to the door. Brain had passed out sitting up in front of his computer, and Brendan had no intention of disturbing him. He left a note, saying he'd be back soon, and slipped out into the hall. He was impatient, but he thought that maybe he could get a little air and feel a little less nervous.

Something just didn't feel right. He was too conscious of his heartbeat, too fidgety. This was supposed to be the calm before the storm, but something just kept nagging at him, something he knew he should remember but couldn't quite recall. It made him feel nauseous.

He turned a corner, sighing, and then found himself stopping short. He took in a breath, let it out slowly. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but something just…

It just wasn't _right_.

He slowed his pace, moving down the hall at a snail's pace, hand sliding to where he kept his gun concealed in the waistband of his jeans. He stayed close to the wall, blinking as little as possible as he took in the hallway, trying to find out what had caused his paranoia to spike. He tried to tell himself that the fact that it was quiet wasn't odd considering the time of night it was. If people in the hotel weren't asleep, they sure as hell wouldn't be bumming about in their rooms after all, not with all Vegas had to offer them… but he couldn't shake it.

This wasn't a quiet brought about by absence. He knew this silence. Something in the air had shifted, become tense, and the feeling still lingered even though the ones involved were gone.

It was the same silence he'd heard when he'd shot that man in the alley, the same silence he'd heard when he found Emily's body lying face down at the mouth of that tunnel.

He turned another corner, and then he could see the elevator, its doors being held open by something blocking the entrance. It looked like…

"No," Brendan breathed, running the rest of the way down the hall, pulling out his gun, prepared to fire if he needed to. When he reached the elevator, he felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

For several seconds, time seemed to stand still as he stared into the open elevator, at the body lying face down on the floor, the blood spattered against the back wall. He didn't understand how he couldn't have heard it. He had been awake. He was just around a couple of corners. She had to have struggled, had to have screamed, right? How could he have missed it? The blood dribbling down the wall hadn't even reached the floor yet, so she hadn't have been there long. She had to have been coerced somehow, maybe, or…

Brendan knelt down next to the body, rolled it over, pushed the short blonde hairs back off of her forehead.

Laura was like ice, but he checked for a pulse anyway. He couldn't find one.

"Shit," he hissed, standing up and looking up and down the hall, readying his gun to fire. Whoever had done this was still here, and he had a feeling they'd be taking down the rest of the team anytime now… That is, if they hadn't already.

Part of him wanted to stay with Laura's body, but it wouldn't serve any purpose now. He needed to warn everyone that they'd been made, possibly find out the traitor in their midst, and he needed to do it fast. His breath was shaking, even as he looked down at his hands, finding Laura's blood stained there from when he'd rolled her over, and he knew he couldn't have been standing here for more than a few seconds, but it felt like hours.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

His heartbeat thumping in his ears, he bolted back down the hall towards their rooms. He wasn't sure he believed in God, but in that moment he was praying for him to be on his side just this once. He couldn't necessarily say he was surprised when he rounded the corner and found doors wide open.

He didn't waste time, shoving his way into Mal and Laura's room first, only to discover it empty. He turned around to look around, see if maybe Mal was hiding somewhere, only to find him nearly running into a body that had sneaked up behind him. Brendan shouted, aiming his gun, and he very nearly fired it before he heard a familiar voice saying, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't shoot, don't—it's me!"

"Eames?" Brendan said shakily. Even in the darkness of the room, he could tell something wasn't right.

There was blood spatter across his shirt, for one.

Brendan set his jaw, lowered his gun only a fraction so that it pointed at his chest, and said, "You've got ten seconds to explain, so you'd better start now."


	21. Chapter 21

**TWENTY-ONE**

Eames stood frozen in front of Brendan, blood-stained shirt sticking to the skin. When he had seen it was Brendan, his hands had begun to lower from where they'd been thrown up. When he realized the gun wasn't going down, however, his movement had faltered, and as such he was stationary in what was almost a placating gesture.

"Darling," Eames said softly, his voice cool except for the almost non-existent tremor. Brendan had learned to seek out those little details from him. "Don't be hasty. We don't have time for this. They've got Mal."

"Yeah, and I want to know who led them right to her," Brendan growled.

"You… you think _I_ did it?"

"You're the one with the blood on your shirt. _Darling_." Brendan found himself sneering by the end of it, tacking on that mocking pet name and hoping it stung as much as he wanted it to.

"Of course I've got blood on my shirt!" Eames complained, taking a quick step back when Brendan moved forward with his eyes blazing. "I shot the bastard who tried to take me hostage after I escaped his grip. He's lying dead in the parking garage, and it's only a matter of time before he's found."

"You expect me to believe that?" Brendan shouted, pressing the gun to Eames's chest, right over his heart. He didn't understand why it hurt so much. It should have been par for the course by now. "Laura's lying in a pool of her own blood in the elevator, you're the only one still standing here, and you've got blood all over yourself! I didn't hear not one second of struggle, so that means it had to be someone they trusted, someone who forced them, and since no one else is here, that means it's _you_."

"I know what it looks like," Eames said quickly, and his casual veneer was cracking, revealing the man beneath. Brendan momentarily wondered if anyone else had ever seen through the forger's carefully sealed cracks. "It wasn't me though, I swear. I swear to _God_ , I swear on my _life_ , whatever—You know me. You know I would never betray Mal. I would never betray you."

"I don't know _shit_ about you," Brendan hissed, finger shaking on the trigger. He didn't know why he wouldn't just do it. He kept telling himself that it was because he needed to know where they'd taken everyone, but he knew that wasn't all of it. "I know you're a professional liar who calls himself Eames and also says that's not his real name. I know you're good at smiling and pretending while closing everyone off around you so no one knows what you're thinking. It's all part of the façade. I don't know a damned thing except that you're standing right here while everyone else is gone."

"Why would I sell us out?" Eames asked, and his voice had raised a half octave from nerves. "I've got no reason for it, Brendan. I've got nothing to gain from it. If I had been working with Johnny, why would I have dove into that river to save you? Why would I have pulled so many favors out of my arse to get us here, to get us ready, only for it all to fall apart at the last minute? Tell me that. It doesn't make any sense.

"Think about it, love, please… Laura must've run too. Maybe she was coming back to warn you, I don't know. Your room had to have been the last stop, but you weren't in there. I don't—I don't know how to convince you, so please, just try and put the pieces together before you put a hole in my chest. Please. _Please_."

Brendan's hand trembled no matter how he tried to steady it. He couldn't look away from Eames's eyes, and yet he couldn't discern anything from them. He couldn't tell if Eames was talking a big game or if he was being honest, and the longer Brendan stood there thinking about it, the further away his friends got.

"I don't… I don't know…" Brendan finally managed.

Eames let out a sigh through his nose, looking down at the gun pressed to his chest. "I was afraid you might say that," Eames said dejectedly, then proceeded to nab the gun from Brendan's hand with lightning quick precision and then bash it against Brendan's temple, knocking him out before he even had the chance to react.

* * *

When Brendan came to, his forehead was pressed against the glass of a passenger side window and dawn was just breaking over the horizon. He was instantly aware of a few things—he was suffering from one hell of a headache, he was being driven through the desert in a car he did not recognize, and he was currently tied up by the wrists and ankles with rope.

"Son of a bitch," Brendan growled, adjusting himself so that he was sitting up. Eames was driving of course, cigarette burning between his lips, eyes focused on the dusty road before him.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Eames said, his casual lightness having returned. "As you can see, we're heading off to storm the proverbial castle. It's good to know I won't be doing it on my own, yeah?"

"You bastard," Brendan said, wiggling his fingers and jerking his arms in the attempt to release himself from his restraints. They wouldn't budge. "Do you tie up all your bed partners like this?"

"Mm, occasionally," Eames said. "I needed to make sure when you woke up you wouldn't attack me. We haven't got time for in-fighting, especially considering I'm innocent in this whole matter."

"Forgive me for doubting you, but you've already knocked me unconscious and are now holding me hostage and driving me somewhere well off the beaten path that I don't know."

"I know how it looks," Eames said. "Hell, if I was you, I wouldn't trust me either, but I assure you that while I might not be the most loyal of dogs, I'd certainly never throw a bone to Johnny Wells. Not only can I not stand the wanker—hell, I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire, but I've also got nothing to gain from helping him."

"Money."

Eames snorted. "Money? Honestly, darling, what kind of man do you take me for? If I want money, I can get it a lot of other ways than that. If I was that desperate, I'd just rig a poker game. It's that bloody simple."

"Power then."

"Wrong again. Do you know how much responsibility comes with power? That Spiderman nonsense wasn't wrong. I think you should have noticed by now that I'm more of a background man. It's a little less complicated and a lot easier to cut your losses and run."

Brendan was silent for a second, the gears turning in his head. His thoughts were still slightly muddied from the blow to the head.

"Maybe now would be a good time to point out that if I'd wanted you out of the picture I could have killed you already," Eames reminded. "Oh, and I'm not taking you out into the middle of nowhere. We're going to the warehouse where Johnny stashed everyone."

"How would you know it's the one?"

"Because it's not a cat-and-mouse game. This is a hostage situation. He wants us all in the same place so he can take care of it all at once. He's got a flair for irony, so I imagine he's probably at the very warehouse where we were going to battle anyway. The only problem is that now we've only got two pieces left… Oh, and he's probably been torturing our friends."

"For what?"

"Why does anyone torture? Information, of course. Every last drop. He probably wants to know where all of his stashes are, where all of our hiding places are, everything he can drain out."

"So, why should I believe you're not bringing me right to him? Going right at him is surely going to be a trap. It's a suicide mission."

"What would you have in your head that he doesn't already know? As far as Johnny's concerned, you're probably just a body that needs to be taken care of, so if he had me working for him, I would have killed you by now. I would have had ample opportunity I assure you…"

Brendan had to admit that Eames had a point. The longer he sat there putting the pieces together, the less likely it seemed that Eames was playing double agent. He just hoped that it all really made sense and it wasn't some sort of sentiment causing him to make the pieces fit.

"Now, I'm well aware that we don't have the best hand, but I know I can't bunker down while my mates are being bled dry. I know you can't either. They took them, Brendan. All of them. Cobb, Mal, even your friend with the glasses."

"Brain," Brendan breathed.

"They went quietly, so they're still alive. Laura must have put up a fight like I did. She didn't make it out alive though. Perhaps she'd served her usefulness to Johnny already, I don't know. He doesn't take betrayal lightly, that's for damn sure. It'll be a miracle if Charlie and Russell are still alive."

"Unless one of them double-crossed us."

"I don't know," Eames said distantly. "I know those two… They're not bad people. If one of them sold us out then it wouldn't be because he wanted to. Johnny's probably got something to hold over their heads."

Brendan got that feeling that he had forgotten something again. As he scoured his brain for the piece of information, he felt ill, his head still spinning a bit from the blow Eames had given it earlier. "Fuck, did you have to hit me so hard?"

"Sorry, love," Eames said, and it sounded genuine. "Force of habit. I really thought you were going to shoot me. My adrenaline put a little more force behind it probably."

"Yeah, thanks. A lot of good it's doing me now. Fuck, I know I remember something… Can you at least pull over and untie me? I believe you, for God's sake."

"How do I know you're not just going to cut and run as soon as I untie you?"

"Well… for one thing, we're in the desert. Where am I supposed to go?"

Eames hummed, pursing his lips. "Good point."

Eames pulled over the car, climbed out, and came around to the other side. When the passenger side door opened, Brendan was smacked in the face from the heat. He imagined that, if this had been a summer month, it would have been a lot worse, but it still caught him off guard. Eames took no notice of it of course, apparently the kind of man who handled heat easily (probably something instilled in him during his military time). He unraveled the knots in the ropes holding Brendan down with ease and tossed them into the back seat.

Brendan expected him to go right back to the driver's seat, but instead he lingered, frowning. "I'm sorry," Eames said after a moment. "I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want to see it go like this. I should have noticed something was off sooner, I should have fought harder or made a commotion from the beginning… I haven't been completely honest with you."

"What?"

"Like I said earlier, I got dragged down to the parking garage," Eames said. "I know who sold us out. I just… I didn't want you to know because I don't want you to kill him."

"Why wouldn't you…" Brendan trailed off as it suddenly all clicked into place, triggered by the slightly raw areas where the ropes had rested on his wrists.

_"No offense, mate, but I'm not entirely sure why Charlie has so much faith in you to get us out of all this. We couldn't get out of it on our own, and we're at full health and strength. You're bloody chained to the bed looking like death warmed over, and Johnny's got all our names in his book. He'll have us killed, or worse, have all the people we care about killed for crossing him if he catches us, which he would."_

"It was Russell," Brendan said, swallowing. "Back… back when Johnny had me tied up back at his compound in London… Russell had said that they couldn't… You… you were the only one with nothing to lose—Johnny had all their names in a book, knew where their families were. He… he must've threatened…"

"His sister, probably," Eames said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "He used to go on and on about her when we were still in Her Majesty's. He's my mate, and I know he's not a bad man. He's just got his back against a wall."

Brendan looked into Eames's eyes and found himself shaking his head. "Eames… people are going to be tortured and killed because of him."

"Not if we save them."

"And you think we can? It was a longshot when we were all together, and now it's just the two of us. Do you honestly have that much faith in my abilities?"

"Yes," Eames said without hesitation.

The answer was surprising enough that it shut Brendan up for a good sixty seconds. Even when he was able to form words again, all he managed was, "What?"

"I have faith in you," Eames said, rolling his eyes. "I trust in your skills and I trust you. I know that your heart is in the right place no matter what you do, and you have faith in that." He paused, biting his lip, and he almost reached out to touch Brendan's hand before apparently deciding against it. "You've got more good in you than I do. I saw it on you the moment we met. I've got the proverbial skills to pay the bills or what not, but if you take that away, I'm just a con man. I'm a _good_ con man, mind, but still…"

"Are you trying to tell me I have the makings of greatness in me?" Brendan asked flatly. "Like I'm some sort of superhero?"

"Not at all," Eames said, a corner of his mouth turning up. "You've got plenty of rottenness in you too. You'd be a bloody awful superhero. Your goodness wouldn't make you a seeker of justice unless it's your own justice, but there's enough of it in there that will get us out of this mess. It sounds like bollocks, but I believe that much."

"You don't care at all about my doubt in you, in all of this?"

"Not particularly," Eames said with a shrug, gaze averted. He did manage to reach out and touch Brendan this time, though it was only a squeeze of the shoulder. "It makes sense for you to doubt me. So far, all you've learned is that I'm as loyal as it suits me. Something is special about you though. I'll let you know when I've figured out what it is."

Brendan sighed, breaking eye contact when it grew too uncomfortable. "So… if we're going to go after them, we're going to need some weapons."

Eames grinned. "Darling. I came prepared."

* * *

Brendan hadn't understood it at the time when Eames had told him that he would call in favors, especially when no one had shown up. It seemed that Eames's help had come in an entirely different form though, one that he'd decided to keep to himself until the day of, and Brendan could see why now.

Apparently a friend of his owned this bunker buried down in the desert sands, and when Eames opened it up by pressing the code on the key pad, there was a rather extensive collection of guns and ammunition waiting for them. "Your friend seems a bit insane," Brendan said as they started grabbing what they needed, no time to stop and really observe.

"Not insane, just paranoid. One of the earlier forms of somnacin messed with his circuits a little, and so he's constantly under the impression that someone is following him or that the government is going to beat down his door. He has bunkers like these all over the world. He owed me, so he gave me access to this one."

"That doesn't really convince me that he's sane."

"Fair point. Still, you can't really complain considering how handy it is now," Eames said, smiling cheekily before loading a pistol and shoving it into a holster he'd already put on. "Let's pack up as much of it as we can carry without slowing us down. Think less guns, more bullets, yeah?"

"This isn't my first suicide mission," Brendan said flatly, even though it was the first one he'd gone into with any weaponry besides his quick thinking.

"Hey, you came out from those all right, didn't you? Think about how well you'll do this time."

Brendan was tempted to punch Eames in the face, but a bloody nose wouldn't help anything right now. He settled for giving him a deadpan look and reloaded the pistol he'd brought with him. Eames, probably remembering how that pistol had not too long ago been pressed against his chest, seemed to take the hint and stopped with the banter.

Eames went digging through boxes almost immediately even though the weapons were all on display. Brendan couldn't help but wonder if he was looking for something secret, but before he could open his mouth to ask what he was trying to find, Eames popped back up again. "There's only one," Eames said.

"One what?"

Eames tossed it to him. "Put it on."

It was a bulletproof vest. "Why are you giving this to me? Why not take it for yourself?"

Eames dug out his cigarettes and lit one up. Brendan noticed it was his last one. "We have to protect that fickle heart of yours, don't we?"

Brendan looked back down at the vest, finding himself momentarily stilled by this turn of events. Barely hours ago, Brendan had put a gun to this man's heart and threatened to pull the trigger, and his trust in Eames at this point had only been out of necessity… It made him wonder how much longer they were going to keep going back and forth like this. Maybe it would be forever. Maybe deception was just part of the business. He didn't know for sure, but he did know that in that moment he honestly believed that Eames had his back here. It may not last, but necessity or not, he trusted Eames.

"I'll wear it, but if you die, I will kill you, got it?" Smirk.

"Oh, darling," Eames said, "it takes more than an army to get rid of me. I've already done it once before… possibly more than once."

Brendan put on the vest and then pointed a finger in his face. "No matter how this turns out, I'm never sleeping with you again."

"I don't even think you believed that."

"Shut up."

Eames crossed the bunker in two strides, gently took Brendan by the back of the neck, and pressed their lips together in a firm, short kiss. "Hey, if you stick by that little statement of yours, that might have been my last chance," Eames offered immediately after as an explanation.

Brendan knew what he really meant by it.

"Let's get moving," he said.

* * *

Armed to the teeth, the two of them had piled back into Eames's car. Brendan took over behind the wheel so that Eames, with his military prowess using a gun, could keep one trained out the window as they approached the warehouse, ready to shoot anyone who tried to take them down before they could get inside.

"You know," Brendan said as men started filing out with their own personal arsenal, "I generally prefer the stealthy approach."

"Afraid that's in short supply," Eames laughed, effortlessly taking out two men just as bullets sent cracks into the glass of the windshield. "Live a little. Don't be afraid to have a little imagination."

"I don't have an imagination," Brendan said, turning the wheel sharply so that the car swerved, smashing four more men with his bumper.

Eames raised his eyebrows as if to say, _And that was?_

"I still think on my feet," Brendan said, opening the door to smash the head of the man trying to crawl up the side. "You can thank Tug for that move."

"Who the fuck is Tug?"

"I think it's a kind of drink," Brendan said, pulling out his pistol and pumping the oncoming cronies with one bullet each. "Milk and vodka?"

"Disgusting."

Brendan smiled at him and rolled out, as he got to his feet he shouted, "I'll cover you!"

Eames's back was against his almost instantly, though it was only momentary before they dove behind some nearby cover. "I should be covering you. I'm the one with the military training," Eames scoffed.

"Yeah, well, I'm the one in the bulletproof vest so stay behind me and don't let yourself get shot."

"Bossy is a good look on you."

"Be insufferable later please." He fired off a couple more shots and then let Eames take over while he reloaded. "There's no way we're going to get in through the front. They just keep spilling out. We'll run out of bullets if we keep sitting here like this."

"Luckily we scouted the place before then, yeah?" Eames said. "There's a side entrance we can get to from here."

"Lead the way," Brendan said. "I'll keep the heat off your back."

"You'd make a marvelous pointman."

Brendan was barely able to give him a glance before Eames was throwing himself towards the side of the building, keeping his head low while Brendan fired off shot after shot at all of those who pursued.

He knew they were running into chaos, knew that their chances were slim even if they could find everyone else and put guns in their hands. A few months ago, Brendan would have found some way to get some other sap to run inside instead and then head for the hills to keep out of the fire. He didn't used to care about the people who fell in his path when he was trying to reach a goal, but things were different now. It was time to forgive himself for his mistakes and try not to make any more unforgivable ones.

He may not have been a hero, not now, not ever, but his friends were in danger and he knew how important that was now.

He'd spent too long willing to die for something, for someone. Now it was time to live.


	22. Chapter 22

**TWENTY-TWO**

When they got into the building, Brendan did a sweep of the area for Johnny's cronies while Eames barricaded the entrance by toppling over an old filing cabinet in front of the door. "That won't hold for long," Eames said, a bit breathless.

"They've probably already sent more guys around to head us off anyway," Brendan said, listening to the scuffles and shouts echoing off of the walls of the warehouse. He couldn't pinpoint where it was all coming from because of the echoes, so all he could hope for was that they weren't nearby. He doubted they were terribly familiar with the warehouse or the location of its side doors, so he just had to hold faith that it bought them a couple of minutes. "Let's just go."

"You're the one who insisted on leading."

Brendan would have rolled his eyes but figured now was not the time. He moved forward down an aisle, creeping silently with his gun extended, keeping low and close to the stacked palettes of abandoned material that lined each side. He also checked the corners before making his way around. He could practically feel Eames itching to make some sort of remark about what a 'good little spy' Brendan was playing, but thankfully he realized it was probably best to stay silent for the time being.

Eames only risked speaking to whisper, "Darling… not for nothing, but this is a warehouse. These little aisles are about to give way to a big open space. Perhaps we should be looking for cover we can take with us."

"Eames, there isn't anything but these palettes, and I don't think the wood will hold up well against bullets. I'm your only moving cover, so deal with it."

Eames clearly didn't like this plan, even though he had to have known that was a part of it from the beginning. Brendan had already told him that he'd be leading the way since he was the one in the bulletproof vest. It didn't mean he didn't understand Eames's apprehension (hell, he was feeling pretty anxious about it himself), but there was nothing to be done but move forward.

"Besides," Brendan added, "maybe it'll work out. The warehouse they had me locked up in had a bunch of makeshift walls put up. They might have done that here too."

"You never seemed like the kind of person who dared to hope for that sort of thing."

"I don't," Brendan said, glancing back at him momentarily. "Nothing in the past has ever worked out smoothly for me so I don't bother hoping the tides could shift. It just seems like they might do it if they're going to be interrogating each person; they'd want to keep everyone separated, especially Cobb and Mal so they won't come up with a plan to thwart them or whatever."

He turned back, brow furrowing as he crept along. "Even if they put them under on the PASIV, if Mal or one of the others puts the idea in Johnny's head to send him digging for his stolen stash somewhere far from here, then that would be the ideal plan. I know that's what I would do. As it stands, if they're separated they can't do that, so most of what our friends are trying to do is defend and stall… which means they probably aren't in the best shape. They've probably been beaten and deprived of food and water and screamed at. It's not an ideal situation either way, but at least if they've separated them and put up walls, it's a more ideal situation for _us_. That's all."

Eames fell silent, nodding his head. "Yeah. You're probably right."

"You're getting sloppy, Mr. Eames. Come on, keep up with me now. You should have thought of that long before I did."

"I tend to do a little less planning and a little more improvising. Besides, I think you give yourself too little credit when it comes to the details."

"I thought forging was all in the details."

"The people, darling, not the places. That's why I'm shite as an architect… I'm also not a fan of imagining my mates being tortured in any form, and I've spent a good portion of my time concerned about…"

"About what? Getting shot?"

"If you have to ask about what, then perhaps you should think on it more." He smiled.

Brendan knew what he'd meant, but he couldn't quite deal with the implications of that right now. He was still recovering from his lapse of trust in the man on top of this insane rescue mission. His not-relationship with Eames would have to wait for another day.

"Well… in any case," Brendan said a bit awkwardly, "don't let it fuck with your head. I need you thinking clearly, okay?"

"I know."

As they approached the end of the aisle, Brendan could see some of the makeshift walls he'd become familiar with in his time as a hostage. Neither of them pretended it was a good thing, even if it did make their stealth a tiny bit easier, not when there was a possibility that some of the people they'd come to rescue were already damaged beyond saving. Brendan had endured the kind of torture they could put forth, and it had fucked with him. He was also stronger and more defiant than some people. He didn't know if some of the others would be able to bounce back as easily as he did.

He swallowed thickly and whispered, "Keep low, and keep quiet."

They stayed ducked behind a wall for several minutes, just listening as Johnny's boys scrambled about the place, searching for the two of them. Brendan knew they needed to move fast and carefully. He also knew that splitting up would cover more ground and make it less likely for them to be caught, but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted Eames alone like that without a bulletproof vest.

He could tell Eames was thinking the same, weighing his options. Brendan knew deep down that keeping Eames close was more to placate his own worries and less for the task at hand, and he'd quite literally just lectured Eames about not letting whatever it was between them screw up his resolve.

Silently they stared at each other, their intentions obvious from that one look, and then they reluctantly split off in different directions. It felt like Brendan was leaving a limb behind, but he tried not to think about it too much.

The room itself felt as though it was built like a maze, and for a second or two Brendan pondered the idea that this might be a dream. He couldn't let himself get caught up in that fear, so he checked his totem quickly (reality), and kept moving. After twenty minutes of creeping about, dodging sight of his pursuers and keeping low and still for long periods of time, he was starting to feel like he was spending far too much hiding and not enough time finding. He finally managed to reach a room that wasn't currently being watched and slipped inside, plastering himself up against the corner by the door immediately.

After taking just a moment to catch his breath, he took in the tiny room and the only person inside of it.

"Brain?" Brendan whispered, moving quickly to his side. Brain was tied up, bloodied, and pale. He was shivering badly, though Brendan wasn't sure why just yet. All he cared about was that he was still alive. "Brain," he said again, touching his face. "Brain, come on."

Brain lifted his head with a sharp intake of breath, and Brendan had a hard time recognizing him without his glasses on. He looked so much younger and more fragile. "Oh," Brain said in relief, "thank God. I had no idea if you were even alive. Oh, fuck, I'm so glad to see you." His voice was as wobbly as he was, the happiness tinged with a sort of hopeless ache. It was somewhat understandable since they were very far from out of the woods.

"Are you okay?" Brendan asked, crouching at Brain's ankles to untie his legs. There was blood spattered all over the floor beneath him, and it seemed like far more than a bloodied nose should have given. It made his stomach twist.

"Fuck… Brendan…" Brain slurred a bit, tilting his head back. "I guess my head's just too cluttered for them to get anything out of it. That PASIV device is so fucking terrifying, God… They couldn't get to me though. Everything's so complicated in there. I can't keep track of it all, so it was stupid for them to think so. I got them pretty good a few times." He smiled weakly.

"Are you okay?" Brendan asked again, concerned that he hadn't received a direct answer.

"When they couldn't… they couldn't get anything from me inside, they started trying from the outside," he said, a whimper appearing in his voice near the end of the sentence. Brendan was about to ask what they had done when he reached for Brain's wrists to untie them and saw for himself.

Two of Brain's fingers were missing. It hadn't even been a day since they'd been captured, and they'd chopped off two digits. That explained the blood.

As horrifying as it was, Brendan was grateful he'd gotten to him before it became any worse. He'd need to get to a hospital though; he'd lost a lot of blood, and he was still bleeding, and there was also the high risk of infection in a place like this.

"Jesus," Brendan whispered. He finished untying Brain, who practically crumpled out of the chair, but Brendan managed to catch him, steadying him as carefully as possible. "Listen, Brain… Brain, stay with me and listen, all right?"

"You got it, boss. I'm here," Brain said, offering a weak smile. It did nothing to settle Brendan's nerves.

"You have to put pressure on this so it stops bleeding or you're not going to make it out of here. Do you understand?"

Brain nodded, watching a bit helplessly as Brendan got him out of the plaid shirt he wore atop his undershirt and used it to tie the wound. "Hold onto it, all right?" he said again, snapping his fingers in Brain's face to keep him focused. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," he said, "I'm… I'm with you. I promise… I bet… I bet this is pretty relieving for you, huh? Proves I'm not a robot."

He knew Brain was just trying to keep a good humor about the whole thing, but it made Brendan's insides feel hollowed out. "Just hang in there. I'm going to get you out of here."

Before Brendan could say anything else, the sounds of shouting and struggling bled through the thin wall. He paled, turning to look back at Brain.

"Please tell me you brought an army and that's them."

"They got Eames," Brendan said.

"Shit," they both whispered simultaneously.

"Did you at least bring anyone else to help besides him?" Brain asked.

"Afraid not."

"Well, this is just great. We're down one man, and I'm missing fucking fingers. There's practically an army out there, Brendan. What the hell are we going to do?"

"You're going to stay here and wait for my signal, and you're going to keep pressure on that wound, okay?"

"I can't let you go out there by yourself, Brendan. It's _suicide_."

"I've got a bulletproof vest. Eames doesn't have anything. I have to help him, Brain."

Brain's brow furrowed, but at least his show of concern was a sign that he still had some signs of life in him. "You don't have bulletproof everything. They'll pump you full of lead, and then we're all dead. You promised me you wouldn't die. I put all of my bets on you, Brendan—"

"Brain," Brendan said, interrupting him. "I'm going to be okay. I can't take you out there with me because you're hurt, and you'll tie up one of my eyes if I'm trying to protect you. When I give you the all clear, you run, and you try to find everyone else, okay?" He removed one of his own pistols and set it down in front of Brain, making sure he could sit up against the wall beforehand. "If you need it, you fire, but right now just keep pressure on that wound. I'm going to try and be fast so hang in there."

"This is really dumb."

"I know, but it's the only option we've got."

Brain let his head gently thud against the wall. "Go."

Brendan checked to make sure Brain had pressure on the wound one more time and then got to his feet. "I'll whistle," he said and slipped out the door.

He didn't hesitate to draw his gun, though he did hesitate to fire when he saw two men holding Eames down while another was beating him senseless, demanding to know where Brendan was. Brendan shouted out so they'd turn to look at him, and then he emptied the clip into the three cronies. Before he could even get to Eames and see if he was all right, he was swarmed by at least five other men. Eames was being attacked just as quickly, but Brendan had given him the second he needed to get his hands on his weapons. Brendan smacked a man with the butt of his gun while Eames buried the blade of a knife into one man's stomach and then into another's, not paying any mind to the blood seeping from his own wounds.

There were too many of them to fight off; they were outnumbered, but Brendan would be damned if he didn't try. He was well aware that if Johnny's men had wanted them dead, they'd already have been pumped full of holes, but he didn't like that he didn't know _why_ they were being kept alive. Eames didn't seem nearly so disturbed by it.

It didn't take long before the two of them were overwhelmed, arms pinned behind their backs as they were forced to their knees.

Brendan turned to look at Eames as best as he could, feeling blood seeping from a wound just above his eyebrow and sliding down his temple, and he asked, "Why are we still alive?"

"Obvious, isn't it?" Eames grunted. "They know one of us knows where the stash of stolen somnacin is."

"We know it's not you, of course," another voice interrupted.

Brendan looked up, a bit stunned. He would have expected Russell's voice, but…

"Charlie?" he said.

Charlie had just exited one of the makeshift rooms, wiping blood off of his knuckles with a handkerchief. "That would be me," he said. "Red looks good on you by the way, Brendan. You should bleed more often."

Brendan would have retorted, but he was honestly flabbergasted. He didn't understand why Charlie of all people was talking like this. Charlie had helped him out from nearly the beginning. It didn't make any sense.

Charlie tucked the handkerchief away in the breast pocket of his shirt, looking casual and unaffected by the surprise on Brendan's face. "I guess you're probably wondering why Johnny isn't here to lead the welcoming party. Sorry about that, but he's dealing with a bit more of a pressing matter right now… mainly the bullet in his skull, but you know." He shrugged, nonchalant.

"Johnny's dead?" Eames asked and spit out a mouthful of blood.

"Good riddance, right?" Charlie said. "I mean, let's be real, he had far too much of a temper to run things properly. I think everyone here now realizes that. He wasn't the smart guy he liked to think he was, and frankly I was a bit tired of him taking all the credit. No, see, now that I have everything under control, I decided it was time to give myself a promotion… Just in case you were curious."

"You did this," Brendan said slowly. "You did all of this. You sold us out, you captured our friends, you killed Laura… It was all you…"

"I'm honestly a bit stunned you didn't figure it out," Charlie said, waving a hand to order the men holding them down to tie them up. Ropes were produced almost instantly from the other men who had guns trained on them. Brendan glared at him, mouth curved into a hard frown.

"Really?" Charlie scoffed. "You want me to tell you the tale? Come on, can't you put it together? You're a bright kid. You figured out Laura's scheme when you were running with the Pin. Honestly, how complicated can this be for you?"

Brendan said nothing.

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Do you want to know why you're still alive?"

Still, Brendan said nothing.

"Your defiance is meaningless," Charlie said, "but you can thank Mr. Eames for the fact that we haven't pumped you full of bullets."

"You're using him against me," Eames said softly.

"Lucky, isn't it? Probably would have killed him a few minutes ago if it weren't for your obvious fondness. You used to be so good at keeping it together, Eames. That Antony fellow had you tied around his finger though, and Brendan reminds you of him just a little too much. No one is blind enough to miss that. It's _all in the little details_ , isn't it? Isn't that what you tell everyone about forging? That was what all of your little friends from Her Majesty's said when they wouldn't give away your location to Johnny. It's amazing what kind of loyalty people can have for a glorified con man."

"I'm just that charming I guess," Eames replied, and he was smiling but his eyes were burning with anger. It was one of those rare moments where he was transparent, Brendan couldn't help but think.

Charlie slipped his hands into his pockets and said, "So. What I need from you is where you've stashed the goods. You've been setting back production a hell of a lot, and I really don't want to go through the trouble to keep making it if people are just going to keep stealing it out from under me. It's a really expensive process, after all."

"You're making the somnacin?" Brendan found himself questioning before he could stop himself. "I thought Johnny was the only one who knew the recipe."

"Johnny can't even tie his shoes without help. He's braggadocios though, so I can understand why everyone was led to believe that. No, the one who came up with all of that was me, but Johnny did have the recipe too. I figured it was better not to advertise it, considering how Eames and Mal and their little brigade were determined on bringing down the whole operation. I've always been more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, but I thought it was time for me to take center stage. After all, this whole operation of yours is about through. You can make it easier on yourself if you just tell us where all of the somnacin is, but I'm not above sending you under on the PASIV. We'll kill your friend if you don't say."

Brendan swallowed as Charlie nodded at the men to his right and guns were pointed towards him. It was all starting to make sense. Charlie had seemed terribly inadequate at forging and at pickpocketing, two things he was supposed to be known for, and that had all been because he was a chemist, not a forger, not a pickpocket. It was likely that none of what had been broadcast about Charlie Figaro was even true. The only reason he'd helped Brendan escape was because he was supposed to gain their trust. It had been part of the plan all along, though he was sure Wells hadn't expected to be blown away as soon as the final act had been set into motion. Brendan couldn't believe he'd been so stupid.

"So," Charlie said. "Where is it? Start talking, Eames."

"There's nothing to tell you," Eames said, staring him down without an ounce of fear. Brendan wondered if he was acting cool or if he really just was that unafraid. Eames was still a little above Brendan's learning curve, so he couldn't pick out any tells.

A muscle in Charlie's jaw jumped, and it was honestly the first time he'd looked genuinely angry since Brendan had met him. When he glared like that, it was hard to believe he'd ever been so disarming. "Tell me where it all is. You've stolen a fortune, and I want it back. Do you know how costly that shit is to make?"

"I'm telling you, there's nothing to tell," Eames replied again. "Do you think I was planning on selling and getting a jump on your profits?"

"Why _else_ would a guy like you steal it?" Charlie shouted, pulling out his pistol and smacking it rather harshly across Eames's face, splitting open the skin over his left cheekbone. "You're a fucking _con_. That's what you do."

"That somnacin killed the man I loved, and you think I was planning on making a quick buck?" Eames asked, and his anger was starting to simmer.

"Your little boyfriend killed himself," Charlie said, rolling his eyes. "Besides, you don't have much reputation as the justice seeking type. We both know that, so don't play stupid. Where. Is. It?"

"Considering you spent a hell of a lot of time building up a disarming reputation, I would think you'd know better than to base your assumptions off of them," Eames said, and he was baring his teeth, raring for a fight. "There's nothing to tell you, you piece of shite, because I destroyed everything I took, just like I'm going to continue to do until you're put to a stop!"

"No you're not," Charlie said coolly and blasted a bullet into Eames's chest.

Everything seemed to fall into slow motion for several seconds as Brendan watched helplessly. His jaw had gone slack but no sound came out except for a ragged breath. He'd seen people get shot before—hell, he'd watched Tug shoot Dode dead right there in the tunnel… but as horrifying as that had been, it didn't feel anything like this. Dode had been someone Brendan had known, sure, and not someone he'd particularly liked, but Eames was…

He turned his head, watching the faces of the men who had surrounded him blur. He couldn't keep looking at Eames with blood seeping out of his chest, not when he'd already seen Brain bloodied too. Everyone was dying, and it was all his fault.

He couldn't save Emily, and he couldn't save Eames.

No.

Emily couldn't have been saved , but Eames was still alive. Now was not the time for giving up. Now was the time for action. He had a knife in the back of his jeans that he could use to cut the ropes, but he needed their eyes off of him. Eames was clearly out of commission, but he had one small hope. He only prayed that Brain could read his situation.

Brendan whistled as loudly as he could.

On cue, a gun went off, but Brendan couldn't see from where. Apparently Brain had moved long before he'd given the signal.

Charlie had a moment to blink before he dropped to his knees and fell forward, face planting with the pavement with blood leaking out of the hole in the back of his skull.

Up on one of the raised walkways, Brain had toppled backwards from the force of the blast from his pistol. Brendan couldn't hear him from where he was, but he knew that he'd said, "Holy shit."


	23. Chapter 23

**TWENTY-THREE**

For several seconds, nobody moved. Everyone was caught off guard by the sudden shift in events, and more than a couple of Charlie's men were probably thinking Brendan was some sort of wizard. It just didn't seem possible that he could be _that_ lucky. There was also the fact that they were essentially leaderless now, all of those who knew how to make the brand of somnacin they were planning on trafficking were presently and permanently quieted.

Brendan himself was just marveling over how amazing Brain's shot was.

He didn't have time to sit around and stare in wonder though, not with Eames currently bleeding to death beside him. He grabbed hold of the hilt of his knife and pulled it out of its sheath, awkwardly rearranging it to cut the ropes binding his wrists. It wouldn't be an easy task, given how limited his movements were, but the other men were starting to regain their composure over the absurd turn of events. As the gunshot stopped ringing in their ears they were surely realizing how ruined their operation was, and that meant their only condolence would be revenge.

Sure, he doubted they were entirely all that loyal to Charlie, but in Brendan's experience, drug dealers no matter how high profile would kill witnesses if they couldn't get their money. At least then they could leave without the bulls on their tails. He definitely didn't want them going after Brain, especially considering all the blood he'd already lost. He'd probably put all of his strength into that shot.

Brain needed medical attention. Eames definitely did. Brendan hadn't even gotten to the others yet.

With Charlie dead and John Wells dead, it should have seemed like a more favorable position, but it certainly wasn't. Then again, when did things ever go smoothly for Brendan?

He turned to look at Eames, his heart sinking when he realized that he hadn't moved even a centimeter. He was still breathing currently, but each breath was ragged and wet and shallow. If he lived through this… He didn't really like dwelling on the word _if_.

_You should have worn the vest_ , Brendan thought bitterly to himself as he finally carved through one loop of the rope. He was sure his wrists were chafed from the ropes, possibly even bleeding considering the awkward angle of the knife, but all he cared about in that moment was getting through that one loop of rope and cutting into the next one.

Unfortunately, that was about as far as he got before the air around him erupted into a rage. It was not a cry of loyalty for their fallen boss, not by any means, but Brendan and Brain and Eames had cost them their jobs, and they were out for blood, and they had targets. Brendan tried to carve through the ropes faster but before he could even slice through half of it one of the men had grabbed him by the hair, tilted his head back, and pressed the blade of a knife to his throat.

Brendan didn't even breathe.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slice open your neck," the man said, eyes alight with anger.

Before he could do anything else, there was a clattering off to Brendan's side and then a gun going off. The man made a short, choking sound, quickly releasing the knife, which clattered to the floor, leaving a shallow knick on Brendan's throat. The man grasped hopelessly at the blood gushing out from the bullet hole in his neck and collapsed heavily onto his knees, hands useless to stem the flow of blood.

"I'll give you two reasons," a strained voice said. "For one, you really should check and make sure your other victim is dead first… and two, you shouldn't just leave your boss's gun about, even if he did only let go of it because he's dead."

Brendan turned his head and let out a shaky breath as Eames, who had been cutting his ropes the entire time and had taken Charlie's pistol and thus killed Brendan's assailant, coughed a mouthful of blood and collapsed on top of Charlie's body.

"You asshole! You shouldn't even be moving!" Brendan shouted, finally managing to carve through another piece of the rope and get his hand free to untangle the rest from his wrists.

Eames responded with a weak chuckle, another mouthful of bubbly blood, and a wheeze. Clearly, he'd put all of his strength into that shot, and he wouldn't be of much use now. As much as Brendan wanted to panic, he knew now was not the time, so he threw himself out of his chair and onto the ground in the same second Charlie's men descended upon him. All he had was the knife, so he waved it blindly, trying to keep his head low and avoid the bullets. He took one to the shoulder and one to the leg, and it was as excruciating as it had been the first time he'd been shot, but he just tried not to focus on it. He was alone, and he had to fight his way out, and he couldn't allow himself the time to be hurt.

They were going after Brain, and Brendan would battle the very demons of Hell to protect him if need be.

"Brain!" he found himself shouting over the gunfire, even as he dragged Eames's body behind a table that had been flipped over in the chaos. "Run, Brain!"

He doubted he needed to tell him to do that, considering, but he wanted Brain to know that he was still alive, and he wanted to distract his pursuers. He left Eames behind the table, limping out and grabbing a rifle and aiming it. He hoped that it had been lost in the fray and not been thrown down because it was out of bullets.

A bullet grazed the side of his arm, and he could feel his clothes growing slick and heavy with blood, the wet warmth of exposed skin; his vision drifted in and out of focus. His shot leg buckled underneath his weight. Everything he had worked for, that _everyone_ had worked for, that so many had died for, was quickly falling apart, and he was pretty sure he too was about to die here in this godforsaken place… but he'd be damned if he would go down without a fight.

He squeezed the trigger. It clicked uselessly. Fuck.

As a last resort, he took hold of the gun with both hands, prepared to beat his way through the onslaught, but before he had even lifted his arms, his attackers were going down. Brendan found himself collapsing to the floor on instinct alone, head spinning as the exploding sounds echoed off the walls of the building and the inside of his skull. It took him several seconds to even realize that there were people firing into the crowd of Charlie's men, protecting Brendan. He couldn't see the shooters, but he could see the other men going down, letting out frantic cries that could barely be heard over all of the other noise.

Three… no, four shooters. Maybe more.

Brendan didn't care because they were helping him, so he stayed down, arms going over his head. For several minutes, all Brendan could do was stay hunched there with the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. He wanted to go back to where he'd safely stashed Eames, but the last thing he needed was another stray bullet in him. It was hard enough to keep conscious as it was. Despite the pain, Brendan pressed his hand to the bullet in his thigh, hissing out a breath between his gritted teeth as he tried to stop the blood flow.

He wasn't a praying man, but he prayed then and there for Eames and himself and everyone else to make it through all of this.

Suddenly, someone was grabbing him by the arm, and the next thing he heard was a familiar voice saying, "Come on, we have to go!"

"Cobb?" Brendan stammered, but he was already being half-dragged, half-carried out on Cobb's back, being demanded to hang on so he could keep firing. His shot arm ached whenever it was jostled against Cobb's body, but Brendan found it wasn't hurting as much. The pain hadn't diminished exactly, but it felt more distant, as if he was experiencing it through someone else.

Cobb was in terrible shape, beaten and bloodied. Brendan was sure his nose was broken just from the angle and the bruising, but he didn't seem bothered by it. His expression was that of pure determination as he fired at any who would dare try and stop them from getting out. Brendan managed to get his vision to clear enough that he could snag a pistol Cobb had tucked away in his belt and try to help him fight them off , but it still made him wonder how the hell he had even managed to escape.

He wanted to ask, but he couldn't cobble the words together in his mouth. Instead, what came out was, "What about Eames?"

"Russell's got him."

Cobb sounded far away. He had to blink several times to dispel tunnel vision, and when he fired another bullet it buried itself into a table nowhere close to where he was aiming… and yet still, all he could think was that Eames was probably in a hell of a lot worse shape than Brendan was right now. It would be a miracle if he was still…

Brendan realized the gun was no longer in his hand. He also realized they were no longer inside the warehouse because he could see sky above him. He was going in and out of consciousness and the fight was still raging, at least if the sounds he was hearing all around him were any indication. He lifted his head, realizing he was lying on the ground, and he found Cobb crouched next to him behind some (hopefully empty) oil drums, opening fire on the ones firing back at him. He could hear voices shouting even above the firefight, a few of them familiar but most of them not, and he saw Cobb look back at him, his golden hair falling in his eyes, and…

Brendan woke up.

He was in a strange bed with starched white sheets, staring up at a pale ceiling. It was quiet, too quiet to be blinking awake to after the chaos of what felt like seconds ago. Instinctively he reached for his pocket to check his totem only to realize he was in a hospital gown. The room certainly seemed to add evidence to the theory of being in a hospital, with its sterile white walls and tile floors. Machines were beeping nearby, keeping track of his vital signs, and the air was cold and smelled clean. There was a table with a few supplies in the corner with an uncomfortable looking chair in front of it. To the right of him was what he assumed to be a bathroom, as well as a door out into the hall. To the left of him was a window with a daybed underneath it where a book had been left by whoever had been there earlier. The television was on some sitcom at a low volume that he couldn't really hear and didn't really care about. The curtains were pulled shut, so he had no idea what time of day it was or any clue as to if he was even still in Nevada.

Telling himself not to panic, he sat up slowly, carefully. He looked down the front of his gown to see stitches and bandages in several places and found his legs to be in a similar state. His body ached whenever he attempted to move it, though he was still in significantly better shape than he had been after Johnny and his boys had tortured him…

Shit. He had to find his totem. He didn't know if this was real or if this was their doing. He hadn't been conscious for the end of the fight, if there even was one, and for all he knew, he could still be in that fucking warehouse and hooked up to a PASIV device. If that was true, then he seriously doubted that Cobb was alive. And Eames?...

Brendan pushed himself to the edge of the hospital bed, setting his feet carefully onto the tile. It was cold enough to send a shiver through his frame, but he took hold of his I.V. pole just the same and forced his protesting body to move forward. It took him several seconds just to adjust to the sheer amount of pain shooting up his injured leg when he stood on it, teeth gritting and eyes squinting shut. He did his best to keep most of his weight off of it.

He became aware of the fogginess in his head that only came from a cocktail of drugs as he proceeded towards the door, whatever he had been given leaving him sluggish. Real or not, he wasn't entirely sure going out into the hall was the best plan. He didn't have a weapon to fight back with if someone came after him, and even if he did he doubted he could use it effectively. Part of him was telling him to go back to bed and just wait, but he'd never been a patient person. He had to know what was going on, what had happened, where Brain was, and if Eames was alive. There was no way he could just sit back and hope someone delivered this information to him. He didn't care how much it hurt or how dizzy it made him. He was going to find _someone_.

Thankfully, someone came to find him before he could even reach for the doorknob. He jumped back and nearly stumbled as he was almost hit by the door as it swung open, and Mal was similarly surprised that he was standing there. "Oh!" she exclaimed and quickly went to his side to catch him so he wouldn't fall. "Careful, careful, or you'll rip your stitches."

"I'm fine," Brendan complained, even as she practically dragged him back to bed. He didn't fight her even though he wanted to, choosing instead to sit on the corner of the mattress. He couldn't tell if she was real or a dream, though he definitely doubted he'd have dreamed her this way. Mal was bruised, black-eyed, with strangle marks around her neck; obvious even under her make up. Her lip had split but the blood had long since been cleaned up. All in all, she was in poor shape, like Cobb had been, but she was on the mend.

"There now," she said, combing a hand through his hair. "You startled me a bit. I didn't expect you to even be awake just yet, much less up and moving. If I had been your doctor, you would have gotten a very stern talking to."

"What happened?" he asked. "Where are my clothes? Where's my…"

"If you hadn't been so determined to hunt someone down… at least, I'm assuming that's what you were doing… you would have found your things right here," Mal said with a smile as she stood and moved over to the table in the corner of the room. "Your clothes were cut off of you, I'm afraid, but I made sure no one touched what was in your pocket." She lifted a plastic bag off of the table, revealing his loaded die placed inside. "I even picked it up with tweezers, scout's honor."

She brought him the bag, and he accepted it thankfully. He didn't even have to ask for her to turn away so he could roll it a few times. It came up reality each and every time.

"So, what happened?" he asked again. "Where's Brain? Is he all right? What about Eames?"

"Brain is doing all right, considering the circumstances," Mal assured him as she moved to sit on the bed next to him. "He's got a lot of fight in him, that one. It was touch and go for a little while, but they say he'll mend. Last I heard, he was awake and complaining about how he'd have to teach himself how to type again."

"And Eames?"

"He's in surgery again. His second one. I won't know anything until the doctor comes out and tells us."

"How long have I been out for?"

"A day and a half, give or take."

Brendan nodded solemnly, looking down at his lap. "Everyone else?"

"Cuts and scrapes, bruises. Some bullets. We're all okay though. After Charlie was killed, it was easier to take his men down since they didn't have a leader to assemble behind. It was all pretty chaotic for a while, but we at least had the element of surprise on our side. After you passed out, out cavalry arrived. Apparently Eames gave a ring to anyone nearby that owed him a favor before the two of you stormed the place."

Brendan supposed that had been done when he was unconscious before, which seemed to be a running theme in his life lately. "How did you even escape? How did you get the weapons?"

"Oh, darling," Mal said, smiling warmly, "what do you take us for? Amateurs? We stole the weapons after your friend Brain came to find us and set us free. He's a real hero, that boy."

Brendan chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Fucking Brain… I told him to stay put, but I was probably barely out the door when he sneaked out. It's a miracle he's alive, bleeding like that."

"He did have to be given blood, but he is all right. He's been asking about you, and it's not surprising. Even with the bulletproof vest you were wearing, you took quite a few hits. Your body still wasn't at full strength either, considering the ordeal you went through back in London. I think he feared you might die this time around."

"He was probably pretty upset about that then."

"He said that if you did, he'd make sure you wouldn't leave behind a pretty corpse, if that's what you mean. Then he mumbled something about you being thick as what all and shook his head in disapproval."

"Sounds like him. Who would have thought he'd be that good of a fucking shot though? Christ… and without his specs on to top it off."

"He said that it was just a matter of doing the math and figuring out the trajectory… that and Charlie was never one to move about too much. "

Brendan sighed, running his hands over his face. He had a few of his own bruises there that ached when he touched them. "So, what's the wire? Are we all going to federal prison?"

"Not yet," Mal said, chuckling. "My father called in some favors too. The doctors and nurses here are paid off and sworn to secrecy to keep us hidden from the feds and anyone else who's got a problem with us. Papa warned us though that that's as far as his influence and his money can get us right now. It's best if we lay low for the time being, at least until the heat dies down. Dom and I are going on vacation, somewhere warm, and then we're going back to Paris and honing our skills… You're welcome to join us then, Brendan, if you like. The dreamshare community could use a mind like yours. With the proper time put in, you could be one of the best of the best."

"If you had asked me that on the day we met, I would have turned you down," Brendan said softly after a beat. "As it stands though, I don't really think there's any going back now. Brendan Frye caused too much trouble. Brendan Frye is dead."

"You could go back to your old life, Brendan. There's no such thing as 'no going back'."

He shook his head. "You're wrong. That's a world that's too small. It's a world I don't fit into anymore. You can say I can turn and go back the way I came, but I think you know that's a lie too. I can't just go back to being Brendan, the awkward loner eating lunch behind the portables. I've seen too much. I've changed a lot, I think, and… I don't think it suits me anymore."

"So, what are you going to do? Become someone else?" she asked, and she was smiling curiously, as if she expected this answer from him all along.

"I sort of feel like I already am," he said. "I can't unlearn what I've learned… and I can't stop dreaming now."

"There's nothing quite like it, is there?" Mal said.

"There isn't… and besides, I've never really been a hero type. I always end up doing something unethical, maybe even illegal, to get my way. I'm a selfish guy. I'm not meant for the pedestrian world. I want to be a dreamer."

"Well, then," Mal said, "I'll get you in contact with my father again, and you can be a bit of an apprentice to him, if you'd like, until Dom and I return. He'll need someone to fill in while Dom's gone after all, and I think you'd be the perfect match… It does beg the question though, who are you going to become if Brendan Frye is dead?"

"I thought Arthur would work out for me just fine," Brendan said with a smile.

She seemed to brighten a little at that. "Well, then, Arthur," she said, "perhaps you should lie down a bit longer and rest up. I'll bring you the news as I hear it, but you don't need to be up and about. I would hope that Arthur is better behaved than Brendan was."

"Not at all," Brendan said with a slight smirk. Mal kissed his forehead.

"Go to sleep, darling. You need to get your strength back so you can go and see Brain," she said. "I'll wake you if I hear anything about Eames."

Brendan felt a bubble of worry well up inside of him, but he tried not to let it show on his face. Had it been normal circumstances, he doubted he would have been able to sleep, but the different drugs he had pumping through his system made it easier. Within minutes, his eyes were falling closed, and darkness was taking him again.

He thought of Eames until he was asleep, though he'd never admit that out loud.


	24. Chapter 24

**TWENTY-FOUR**

"You're an idiot."

That was the first thing Brain said when Brendan was finally allowed to move about on his own. Brendan had rolled his wheelchair down the hall to Brain's room first, knowing that any delay would have probably warranted insults that were a little more scathing than 'idiot'.

Brendan smiled, laughing a little. "If I'm such an idiot then what does that say about you, huh?"

"That I associate with idiots," Brain said. All of the bite had already left his tone, a tiny, relieved grin on his face. "Good God, if I had gone along with your stupid plan, we would all be dead right now."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Didn't take you as the type to brag, Brain."

"I've never gotten to play the part of the hero before." He paused, brow furrowing, and then added, "The bragging rights are nice, and it's definitely not boring, but I wouldn't recommend it. At least the behind the scenes work is generally safer. You get to keep all your fingers."

When Brain lifted his hand to wiggle his remaining three fingers, Brendan winced. Before he could even open his mouth to apologize, as if that could even be good enough, Brain interrupted. "Don't start with that," he said. "Now's the time where I remind you that I could have turned back at any time I wanted, but I didn't. There's no point in you saying sorry for my fingers. The only damned thing you should be saying is thank you because I saved your ass. I'm always saving your ass, really."

Brendan swallowed around the knot that had formed in his throat at the sight of Brain's damaged hand all the same, and he nodded. "Thank you, Brain. It's not enough to say, but seriously, thank you."

Brain rolled his eyes. "Emotional doesn't suit you, Brendan. Besides, I've got to thank you too. Sure, you came out scraped up and full of bullets, but you did survive. All I asked was that you didn't die, so I guess you held up your end of it… though that wouldn't have happened if it weren't for me. I retract my thanks."

Brendan snorted. "I take it you're not going to let that go for a while then."

"Not ever."

The both of them laughed at that, though it quickly tapered off into silence. Brendan could feel the question Brain was going to ask hanging in the air before he asked it.

"So… what are you going to do now?"

Brendan shrugged a shoulder. "Miles needs an apprentice. I figure I have a knack for this, so I should stick to it for a bit and see where it takes me. All I'll do if I go back home is get bored and get into trouble."

"You'll get into trouble regardless," Brain said, "but a hobby might be good for you. Then you can get into more disciplined trouble."

Silence fell again. Brendan squirmed a bit in his wheelchair.

"I can't come with you for that, you know," Brain said. "From this point on, you're going to be on your own. I've got a lot of rehabilitation for my hand, and I've got a life—at least a little one—back in San Clemente. I'm not into the whole big crime thing. I don't like the danger of it. I'm not made of concrete and nails and the sheer stupid determination you have. I wouldn't make it. Even if I would, it's not a risk I'm willing to take."

"I know, Brain. It's time I did things on my own, stopped getting other folks involved in my mess. I would never ask you to come with me."

They both knew that if Brendan had asked, Brain would find a way, but Brain had suffered more than enough.

"So, you're a dreamer now. That's going to be pretty interesting," Brain said. "You'll be dealing with more high-class espionage, so maybe there will be less shoot outs to the death. God, at the rate you're going, the next time you show your face in San Clemente you'll be wearing a three-piece suit and tie. Makes a man's heart sing to see his boy all grown up."

Brendan chuckled. "I will. I will wear a suit when I come back just for that remark, Brain."

"You'd sure as hell better. I'm not going to be around to hold your hand through these suicide missions you love so much, but if I don't get a phone call at least then I'll hunt you down myself. It wouldn't even be hard for me to do."

"Don't worry about it. I promised you I wouldn't die, and I'm going to keep that promise."

Brain's expression softened a little. For a moment Brendan thought he might cry, but instead he just sniffed and said, "So uh… what about Eames? How's he doing?"

"Don't know," Brendan said, shoulders sagging a little. "They said he made it out of surgery but he's not awake yet. Said it was a miracle he was even alive when he got here because of a collapsed lung or something. Even if he pulls through, they said he's going to be slow moving for a bit, might not even leave the hospital for a few weeks."

"Do you think he'll be all right?"

Brendan wasn't sure why the question made his cheeks feel warm, but he tried to ignore it. "Probably. If he's as stubborn as I am, which he is, I doubt a bullet would stop him."

"If he's as stubborn as you are, a nuclear explosion wouldn't stop him."

The smile that spread across Brendan's face made him ache inside. He still couldn't put a finger on what it was that he and Eames had, but he knew he definitely didn't want him dead or comatose. There was a certain _something_ that drew Brendan to Eames, a gravitational pull, and he wasn't entirely sure he would recover well if he was to lose him. He wasn't stupid enough to think it was something as simple as love, or lust, or any sort of romance, but it was definitely important. It was similar to what he had with Brain, though not quite, and that on its own was astounding because of the years put into his relationship with Brain.

Either way, he didn't like to think about it too much, especially not right now when everything was still up in the air. Now that he'd survived, and once he knew Eames did too, he'd have all the time in the world to figure out what it all meant.

He wasn't going to give up on Eames though.

He had faith in him. That was one thing he knew for sure.

* * *

It only took a few days before Brendan was absolutely sick of being asleep. Mal had found it a bit funny since that was pretty much part of his job description from here on out, but all of them seemed antsy to do something. Russell had already left the hospital to go and find his family now that his nightmare was over. He'd been scraped up pretty badly, but when he said goodbye he had a smile on his face.

"Tell Eames when he wakes up to never contact me for any favors ever," he had said to Brendan. "You can, but it better only be a need to have company for coffee or something while you're in town. Got it?"

Brendan had given him a quick, loose hug, careful of both of their still-healing wounds, and he'd promised.

When he could no longer sleep, Brendan found himself lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. He had nothing to do now but deal with the aftermath, and that meant his thoughts were heavy. He always hated this part, facing what he'd done, what had happened, the uncertainty of where he'd go from here on out, and he couldn't help but wonder if that's why he threw himself into these suicide missions. He wanted to do things, but he'd never wanted to deal with the consequences. He really had been childish.

Laura had died. That still sat solidly in his chest. She had done so many unforgivable things, and yet she had done some good things too. If it weren't for her, he probably would have never made it this far… So he still wasn't entirely sure how to respond to it. He supposed it didn't really matter now. Forgiveness and redemption didn't mean a damned thing to a corpse.

There was also the anger he felt towards Charlie for duping them and the anger towards himself for falling for it in the first place. Brendan knew that everyone had been fooled and that he probably shouldn't beat himself up for it (at least that was what Brain had told him when they discussed it—"It was like me coming out as the leader of the mob," he had said), but Brendan cursed himself for it anyway. At least he'd gotten what he deserved, Brendan supposed, but he really wished it had happened before Eames had a bullet in his chest.

Eames was another complicated moment in his life, growing more complicated by the hour as he waited for some sort of news. Mal said he'd woken up for a few minutes, groggy from pain meds, and mumbled something unintelligible before going back to sleep. That was likely a good sign, but Brendan couldn't get up the nerve to go into his hospital room… and his reasoning was so dumb even he was angry at himself for it.

He didn't want Eames to think he was waiting at his bedside.

He'd cringe when he'd think about how ridiculous he was being, but he didn't want Eames to read too much into it.

He didn't want the man who'd taken a bullet for him to think too much into Brendan sitting by his bedside.

As horribly stupid as it sounded even to his own ears, Brendan had yet to get up the nerve to just roll his wheelchair down to the room in intensive care to see him. It wasn't like him to be so cowardly, but there was just so much uncertainty built between them. More than once Brendan had thought Eames to be traitorous, and then Eames had gone and nearly died for him. It was complicated, or at least Brendan thought so.

Brain on the other hand, didn't seem to agree.

"Just go see him for God's sakes," he complained out of the blue over a game of cards.

Brendan looked up from where he sat in his wheelchair across the table, eyebrows raising a bit. "Excuse me?"

"You're being an idiot and you know it so just grow some balls and go see Eames. It'd probably make him feel better to know you at least give a shit. If it was Emily, you never would have left the bedside."

"Eames isn't Emily."

"I know," Brain said, looking at Brendan over the edge of his cards. "That's not my point. Do you really feel so guilty about him getting shot that you think he's just going to hate you? He knew what he was getting into when he went in there without any sort of protection."

Brendan's face felt warm, but he tried to ignore it for now. "I don't feel guilty about it. I know he knew that. He's the one who gave me the damned bulletproof vest."

Brain was quiet for a second, and then he sighed, setting his cards down. "You do feel guilty. You feel guilty that you weren't able to protect him. He's the reason you're alive, and you feel guilty for that."

"Don't tell me what I do and do not feel, Brain."

"I just call it like I see it, Brendan… but I mean, having survivor's guilt is kind of ridiculous if you both lived so go and see him. It'll make you feel better too, I'd bet."

Brendan snorted.

"I think I've earned the privilege to say that I'm right about everything and you should do what I say," Brain said. "Just do it. Stop being such a wuss."

"Fine," he said, huffing.

"So do it then."

Brendan would have hesitated, but he knew Brain would just keep pressing, so he threw his cards down and wheeled himself out of the room.

* * *

Eames was hooked up to several different machines that Brendan couldn't even pretend he knew the purpose of. He was also slightly ashen, bandaged and stitched up and still bruised. It probably hurt a lot, Brendan thought, feeling unnecessarily guilty over it as he moved hesitantly closer to the bed. It had been a miracle Eames had survived at all, or at least that was what the doctor had said. Mal had said she had no doubts Eames would pull through because it was just his nature, but Brendan still didn't know if she meant that or if she was just trying to ease her own mind.

He looked down at Eames's hand, finding the fingers slightly bent, the palm facing up. Eames's hands were nothing like Emily's, but in a way they reminded him of hers in that moment if only because he could still remember her hands so vividly from when she was lying face down in that water. He had wanted so badly to reach out and touch her then, but he'd known she would be cold. When he'd hefted her into the tunnel, he'd made the effort not to touch any unclothed skin because he just couldn't handle the lack of warmth. Even now, he was afraid to touch Eames's hand. Instead he reached into the pocket of his jacket and squeezed his totem.

Emily was dead, but Eames was still alive, he reminded himself. He wasn't the same person that he was when Emily had died, and he had promised her and himself that he wouldn't let anyone else die if he could help it. He'd promised Brain that he wouldn't be a coward. Most of all, he'd promised Eames that he would protect him. He wasn't a perfect person, but God knew Brendan Frye kept his promises.

He placed his hand on top of Eames's wrist, right over the pulse point. His skin was warm, and Brendan found himself letting out a small, shaky breath.

"Didn't think you'd ever show up."

Brendan jolted and looked up to Eames's face, finding that his eyes were open and he was wearing his usual grin, albeit it being a bit more tired than usual.

"Eames," Brendan breathed.

"That'd be me, yeah. I'm assuming since you're sitting here and because I saw Mal whenever it was I was last awake that we won. That's good."

"Yeah," Brendan said awkwardly. Then, "You're a fucking idiot, did you know that? You could have lied. You could have told Charlie anything, but instead you had to use that smart ass mouth of yours and because of it you got shot in the chest."

Eames shrugged one shoulder, and Brendan realized Eames had moved his hand to place it on top of Brendan's rather than the other way around. "Yes, well, I guess I thought you'd come up with something."

"What was _I_ going to do? I was tied up too."

"Yeah, but they had their guns trained on you, so I figured I needed to get them off of you so that you could break free."

"You could have _died_ , you asshole. What good would that have done anyone?"

Eames's thumb brushed across Brendan's knuckles. "Not much, but I didn't die, now did I? No use dwelling on the 'what if's of things."

"Maybe not," Brendan mumbled, looking down at their hands. He couldn't quite muster the energy to move his out from under Eames's, "but making the sacrifice play isn't going to save anyone. I had to learn that, and you have to know it too. You've got to find the balance."

"If you're telling me not to be so bloody stupid ever again, I can't make any promises."

Brendan smirked a little, meeting Eames's eyes. "Thank you," he said, "for protecting me… for… well, you've done a lot for me, and I haven't exactly been the most grateful."

Eames probably could have said something snarky in response, but in that moment all he said was, "You're welcome."

They both fell quiet for a few moments, the only sounds in the room being the beeping of the machines and the mumblings on the television.

"I really am glad that you're all right," Brendan finally managed. "When he shot you, I just—I don't know."

"You're not confessing your love to me, are you?" Eames laughed a little.

Brendan would have smacked him, but he had a feeling that it would be just a tad too cruel considering his current condition. "Of course not. Idiot."

"Well, that's good," Eames said, eyes falling closed. "There's no need to make this moment too saccharine. It wouldn't suit you. I do hope that 'I'm glad you're better' sex won't be entirely out of the question though once we get out of this bloody hospital."

Brendan bit down on his bottom lip for a moment, then said, "I'm going back to Paris to study under Miles."

Eames hummed sleepily, and if Brendan didn't know better, he'd think there was a twinge of disappointment in it. "Figures you'd already have a plan of action. You really would make a marvelous pointman. Maybe if I'm in the area I'll stop by."

"Where are you going to go?"

"Well, I sure as hell don't want to be in Paris or London for a bit, and I want to get away from the States as soon as possible as well. Any of Charlie's boys that might still be out for blood will be sniffing my trail, so I think I'll go back to Mombasa and gamble for a while, maybe even travel someplace new. Hell, I may just ride down to Mexico and get some quality Mexican food."

Brendan was quiet, wondering if Eames was falling asleep on him and feeling oddly sad that he didn't have any intention of following Eames to Mexico or Mombasa or wherever he decided to go. He'd made his decision, and he was going to stick to it. He had a world to open up for himself, and keeping only in Eames's company was no better than the way he acted with Emily. He had to build his skills up so no one would ever get hurt this way again. The people he would come into contact with, his friends and his comrades, everyone… they deserved that much.

"Darling," Eames said, voice slow as his medication kicked in and sleep started tugging at his senses again. "Do me a favor, would you? I know it's a bit much to ask considering all of the shite I put you through, but humor me?"

"What is it?"

"Stay here until I fall asleep."

A corner of Brendan's mouth tilted up, and he found himself squeezing Eames's fingers a little. "Okay."

* * *

In the end, it was a bit funny that there was any doubt at all over Eames bouncing back. Brendan had already settled himself in with Miles when he heard Eames had gotten out of the hospital a week early. He hadn't quite expected it, but he'd expected even less that he'd hear it from the man himself via a phone call during breakfast.

"How did you get this number?" Brendan asked before taking a sip of his coffee, looking out the window of Miles's kitchen into the garden.

"I ring you up at a respectable hour after having spent days upon days holed up in a hospital bed— _alone_ , I might add, and that's all you have to say to me?" Eames asked. Brendan could hear the smile in his voice.

"Turns out to be," Brendan said.

"I got it from Miles of course, when he told me to stop calling him to get in touch with you. When the man is focused on something he can be an outright beast about getting interrupted."

"It's something I've found we have in common," Brendan said, leaning his hip against the counter. "So are you headed down to Mexico then?"

"Already there, mate," Eames said. "I've got a ticket to Boston for the end of the week, then it's to Amsterdam, and then I'm going to Mombasa to settle in for a bit before I start looking for work. The dreamshare community has recovered just as flawlessly as I have it seems. I've already got offers, but I'm not taking them just yet."

"That's responsible of you."

"I'm not always about the death wish and sacrifice play."

"Could have fooled me."

Eames snorted into the line. "I suppose you've got a point there. How's Miles treating you?"

"He says I'm a natural, just like Cobb was. He thinks I'd be good on point actually."

"I knew I was right about that."

"Yeah, well… it turns out that point is all in the little details too, now isn't it?"

"First thing you learn when dreaming is that all of it is, honestly."

There was a pause on the other end of the line after that, and then Eames said, "So how long do you think it'll be before you're ready to hop out into the field?"

"Well," Brendan said, setting down his cup so that he could top off his coffee with what was left in the pot, "I know all the technical stuff, so I could probably manage now if I had to, but Miles says if I keep on track it could even be as little as a couple of months before I'm considered a professional. Why?"

"Well, we can't have you working your first job without folks you know… I suppose Cobb and Mal will be back by then though."

"Miles doesn't think either of them have it in them to stay out of the game for long. They'll probably be back within this month, honestly. Mal says she wants me on their team, that I fill in the sensible spots when she and Cobb get too idealistic. They're planning on moving stateside and seeing if they can't really make a name for themselves in the dreamshare community there. Mal says they're going to dig deeper and go further than anyone could have imagined."

"That sounds terrifying," Eames laughed.

"Hey, if you're going to dream, dream big, I guess."

"Says the boy with no imagination."

"I do have an imagination. It just works differently than yours."

Eames chuckled, "Well, darling, if you need to get out of Mal and Cobb's hair so they can do their couple things, I'll see if you can't work a few jobs with me. You've got to branch out if you're going to be the best."

Brendan took a sip of coffee and said, "You might get shot in the chest again."

"With you on point, I wouldn't even worry about it. You're a crazy person, but your plans are crazy enough to work, and with my improvisational skills, I think we'd make a perfect pair."

"You seemed to have forgotten I was there when you previously got shot in the chest."

"I haven't forgotten. I also haven't forgotten anything else, thank you very much, and I think you should take it as a compliment that I still want to work with you. You're something special, Brendan. People are going to be talking about you someday soon. You know me, love. I can read people, and I already know you've got full intention of taking this whole operation by storm."

"Yeah, well, I don't really like to share."

"I know that as well," Eames said, voice growing fond. "So, what do you say, Brendan? Join me on a few jobs?"

Brendan smirked.

"It's Arthur now."


End file.
